Timeless - Connor Dewar

two - amelia

Present day

"Can I get another one, please?" I ask, waving to catch the bartender's attention.

The bartender nods as he pulls another glass from under the bar, adds ice, and pours vodka with practiced precision. The amber liquid flows smoothly, refracting the dim light of the lounge. My eyes fixate on his hands, sturdy yet graceful, moving with the fluidity of a seasoned professional. He notices my gaze and cracks a smile. "Impressive, huh?"

"What? Oh, yeah, sorry," I reply, my eyes trailing up to meet his. They are a deep blue, like the ocean at midnight. He holds eye contact as he fills the rest of the glass with cranberry juice, the red contrasting vividly against the clear ice, and slides it toward me. "There ya go, ma'am."

"Thanks," I say, taking a sip of the drink. The cool, tart liquid refreshes me. The bartender doesn't look away, only glancing down for a second to grab a rag and wipe the counter. He leans an elbow against the bar, studying me for a moment longer before speaking. "So, what's a pretty lady like yourself doing here alone?"

I am sitting alone in the local nightclub's quiet lounge area. Thursday nights aren't a popular time to go out, apparently, but my friend and coworker, Willow, insisted I come with her. It took about five minutes in the sweaty, loud party area before I retreated here, leaving her to dance with whoever she wanted—she always called me 'boring,' anyway.

My eyes focus on the bartender's face. Recently, I've been grappling with a steady existential crisis about getting 'old,' and this bartender who looks fresh out of high school trying to hit on me isn't helping. I force a smile, trying to be polite. "Came with a friend. She's out there partying, I needed some quiet."

The bartender nods, glancing away for a moment before leaning a little closer. "Still looking to have some fun?" he says, with a wink.

And... there it is. I let out an awkward laugh. "How old are you?" I question, and the bartender opens his mouth to speak until a woman, probably around my age, bursts through the doors of the lounge, wearing the same uniform as the bartender in front of me.

She looks utterly bewildered, wild-eyed, as she quickly walks to the bar and stands beside me. "Evan!" she exclaims, clearly out of breath as she pauses to try to catch it. "There are some crazy older guys out there demanding the Leafs game on the TV, and I can't find my remote!"

The young bartender, who the woman called Evan, sighs, giving a slight eye roll as he crouches under the bar and returns with a remote. His eyes dart between me and the TV as he scrolls through the channels, landing on the hockey game she had requested.

"Thanks, Ev!" she says, hurrying back out into the club area. Evan focuses on me again. "As I was saying..." he starts, talking about something along the lines of '19, but I'm really mature!' But I don't pay attention. I'm now captivated by the TV in the lounge, depicting a game of ice hockey that's so familiar yet foreign.

I don't think I've watched a hockey game in... what, seven years? Which is crazy to me because I grew up on hockey, going to every local game I could and watching every Jets game on TV—not without reason, though.

I haven't talked to Connor for as long as I've been off hockey, and, surprisingly, I haven't thought of him lately. I guess I've just been so busy with... life? My job, my cats, stuff like that—I don't even have time to dwell on the past anymore.

"Kampf doing a wraparound, centers it, Dewar in front of the net, and he scores! Connor Dewar, his first as a Leaf!" the announcer exclaims, the sound initially going in one ear and out the other... before I backtrack.

"Wait, what?" I end up saying out loud, and Evan furrows his brows. "I was saying—"

"No, not you, shut up for a second," I remark, cutting Evan off before he can finish. I lean as close to the TV as I can, studying it as the players in blue pile on top of the person who just scored.