Chapter 2
In fact, he didn't think he had an awkward bone in his body before meeting Ethan's parents.
He could smooth talk anyone, glide his way through any conversation in any situation like cone drills.
Except, somehow, these two very nice, very polite Crestonians.
"Thank you for this," Maxim managed to say to fill the silence as they walked to the back of the house where the kitchen and dining room was.
"Oh, no worries," said Naomi, her voice still holding a pleasant lilt that may or may not have been feigned.
"Ethan told us what happened.
Gas leak, right?
Scary.
Good thing you weren't there."
"Yes," said Maxim, and Greg's greeting from the kitchen counter saved him from having to think of what to say next.
"Hey, Maxim!
How are you?"
"Good, thank you, and you?" Like an English listening test.
Maxim went in for a handshake with Greg for some weird fucking reason, maybe because he was used to this formal greeting with his own father, but immediately regretted it because he could see Greg's millisecond of confusion, though it thankfully quickly lapsed.
But then Maxim realized how disrespectful it was to not have greeted Naomi the same way if he was going to do this.
Ugh.
It was going to be a long night.
Week.
But Maxim didn't have to think about it for long, because Naomi was beckoning him to put his bag down.
"We don't really have a guest bedroom anymore, so you'll just sleep in Ethan's old room, if that's okay?"
"Yes," replied Maxim, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little too happy at that thought as he followed Naomi up the stairs.
He'd never been to the second floor or seen Ethan's bedroom yet, even though this was the house Ethan had grown up in.
Even with the extent of Ethan's wealth and his insistence on providing a bigger, newer, more luxurious house for his parents, they'd never accepted it, as Ethan had complained.
As much as Maxim knew of Naomi as a "hockey momager", this humbleness was something Maxim truly respected her and Greg for given that he himself had always had a certain leech to deal with.
It was actually only after years of arguing that Ethan had managed to be allowed to pay off their mortgage.
Maxim couldn't help but look at each and every framed picture lining the walls up the stairs.
There were some of grandparents and cousins, but it was mostly Ethan.
A toddler with mud all over his shirt and a bewildered look in his eyes, a seven-year-old wearing a jersey too big for him, a thirteen year old posing with that awkward stance he still had today outside the rink.
One from his rookie year and a couple of Dominion Cup shots in there, too.
Maxim wondered, briefly, what it would be like to be loved that much growing up and still now.
They finally reached Ethan's bedroom, and Maxim nearly held his breath in gleeful anticipation as Naomi swung the door open.
"It's a little small, but the bed should still fit you," she said.
It was, somehow, exactly how Maxim had expected a nice Crestonian boy's childhood bedroom to look.
The walls were a neutral darkish blue, the furniture all a matching stained oak.
Junior trophies and medals adorned the walls and shelves, and the window had a clear view of the tree in their backyard, now a vibrant late summer green.
A Moreau jersey hung from a hanger hooked on outside of the closet door.
"Bathroom's just across and you have it all to yourself," said Naomi.
"I put a towel in there, too.
Let me know if you need anything, okay?
Dinner's almost ready, so just settle in and come down whenever."
"Thank you," Maxim said as she walked away, leaving the door slightly closed but not latched.
He looked around, taking it all in. First order of business was not to unpack, but to uncover the dirty little secrets Ethan had left untouched here.
Honestly, Maxim doubted he'd find anything juicy, so it wasn't
snooping.
He sat gingerly on the bed, then swung his head down to check underneath.
No porn mags.
Expected, but still disappointing.
Maxim swept a finger over the bookshelf, which was immaculately clean, probably dusted before Maxim came.
There were some hockey books, some novels that looked like required readings.
Some dictionaries and encyclopedias- boring.
He opened the closet to find it had been turned into a linen closet, packed with things like sleeping bags and extra blankets and sheets.
Maxim turned his attention to the desk that was under the big picture window.
There wasn't much on the desk, just a lamp and a cup with pens and pencils.
The drawers were where Maxim nearly rubbed his hands together like a ridiculous cartoon villain.
He was delighted to find that the bottom one was full of those folders that could hold loose leaf paper.
He picked one up- yellow, and printed neatly on the cover:
Español, Grade 9.
It held pages after pages of methodically organized homework sheets, all in chronological order with the date written in French at the top left-hand corner of the page, and
Ethan Whitmore
on the right.
Interspersed throughout, also with the identical date formatting, were what seemed to be quizzes. 5/5. 10/10. 6/6.
Maxim snickered a little at the one that said 11.5/12 because it was uncharacteristically wrinkled and crumpled unlike the others.
No doubt this was a source of anguish for fourteen-year-old Ethan, but it was so endearing to think about Maxim couldn't contain it anymore.
He snapped a quick picture of the godforsaken quiz, and sent it to Ethan.
Bad student
, he wrote with it for good measure.
Ethan's reply was almost instantaneous:
WTF?
Mom's letting you sleep in my old room?
Stop snooping!
Maxim couldn't help but let a big, idiotic smile spread.
Did you argue with teacher
, he wrote back.
The text bubble appeared with three dots, then disappeared.
How would I remember
And then, a moment later,
Put that back and don't look at anything else you creep
Too late,
Maxim wrote back.
I have found your porn.
Nice try.