The Perfect Lie

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Chapter 3 Hey, Babe, Over Here!

Nicolas Herrera

"HEY, BABE, OVER HERE!" I heard the shout as soon as I reached the corridor that split the rows of seats in the UCLA arena stands.

It didn’t take a genius to know it was for me, because Joshua Chang, the slanted-eyed goalie of the UCSD hockey team, the Tritons, had been calling me that ever since one of my San Diego girls showed up at practice, I couldn’t remember her damn name, and I literally called her “babe.”

Not my smoothest rejection, I should point out.

When I looked toward the voice, Josh was waving at me along with the rest of the team, all wearing Tritons jackets like it was our game, even though UCSD wasn’t playing.

They had gotten a terrible spot, front row near the corridor that led to the locker rooms, right behind the protective glass panels around the rink.

Apparently, they were saving me a seat, because there was a pile of backpacks between Gabe and Dylan, our two resident brutes. They were probably the ones guarding it, since no one had the guts to tell them they were idiots and that anyone who arrived late should stand.

And, of course, the arena was packed, this time with three different universities: a sea of light blue and yellow from UCLA, rows of red and white from Cornell’s Big Reds, the rival team, and also UCSD’s navy blue.

Apparently, most UCSD students had chosen to support UCLA, since they were our California brothers and our temporary home, but I… well, I wanted Cornell to kick their asses, because they were the favorites to win the Frozen Four, which made them a huge pain in my ass.

We had barely managed to hold off Elijah Clint and his minions when UCSD caught fire. It was anyone’s guess if we’d manage it again when we finally played, since that game had never been finished.

With the lack of practice, I was finding it harder and harder to believe in our victory, to be honest, but obviously I wasn’t about to say that to my teammates.

It took me a while to squeeze past a bunch of knees and the acrylic panel to reach the spot they’d saved for me. The pile of backpacks disappeared before I dropped into the seat, taking a long sip from my oversized soda.

"Thought you weren’t coming, babe," Josh said, blinking several times over Gabe’s shoulder.

Like I said, he had slanted eyes, half Japanese. His mom was Japanese, his dad was some half-senile, ridiculously rich old man, and we, me and Gabe, were convinced his mom had baby-trapped him, but Josh loved his dad, even if the guy was basically ancient, and we weren’t about to say a word about it.

"I was late because of parasitology class," I said with a shrug.

"How many new bottles of alcohol are we going to have to fit in that damn closet?" Gabe asked, rolling his eyes but with that smug grin at the corner of his lips. "I’m pretty sure physics says there’s a limit."

I flipped him off, catching the straw of my drink with my tongue.

"He still collects those little 70% alcohol wipes that come in packets?" Graham Hayes added before tossing popcorn into his mouth and chewing under my glare.

Truth was, they only feared me, or at least respected me, when I was on the rink wearing the “C” on my chest, which was fair, since I wasn’t bossy off the ice.

Okay, maybe in bed too, but that’s a different conversation.

Off the rink, they treated me like a joke, even though I was clearly way cooler than any of them.

"You know what a parasitic relationship is, Hayes?" I asked, staring into his black eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, braided in cornrows. He had made all of us memorize the name of the style, otherwise he’d promised to punch the next guy who called it Rapunzel braids, and since he was huge, no one was eager to test that. "It’s like when a pearlfish crawls into a sea cucumber’s ass because it’s a freeloading bastard. Just like you."

"You want my pearlfish, my sea cucumber?" Graham shot back, raising an eyebrow, his dark skin stretching as his grin widened. "You’re not asking the right way."

"That’s commensalism, not parasitism," Christopher pointed out with a shrug, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He had about twelve degrees of myopia. Looking on the bright side, he was a defenseman, so even if he couldn’t see the puck properly, he’d beat the hell out of any blur that wasn’t our navy blue. "But I agree with the pearlfish part."

Once, he had tried shaving his beard with a straight razor and ended up with cuts all over his cheek. We mocked him for ages, even though they were almost hidden by his red beard.

We only stopped because Julie Sander, the Tritons mascot, said it wasn’t funny anymore. Just like that. “Not funny,” and it was over. Christopher, our myopic Ariel, fell in love with her that day.

He grinned and showed a tiny gap between his thumb and index finger to indicate Graham’s dick size.

I grabbed popcorn from his bag and tossed it into my mouth, smirking. There was a certain beauty in being the captain and having the youngest guy on the team idolize me like I was some hockey god, because he was terrified I’d convince the coach to bench him and force him to actually pursue accounting, the degree he was only doing to please his parents.

God knows, as male homo sapiens, we could spend hours making fun of each other’s dick size without repeating a joke, but fortunately, some higher power intervened, and UCLA’s dean, Phillips, tapped the microphone, drawing everyone’s attention.

As he walked onto the ice like he was afraid of falling flat on his face, he asked all UCLA and UCSD students to move to the stands, including the hockey team and the cheerleaders, who were still in the locker rooms.

I finished my Coke, watching other important figures join him at center ice, all in suits, like it was some formal occasion, even though everyone knew no one cared about official announcements when there was this much anticipation for the game.

Unless the formality was throwing an octopus onto the ice. Weird tradition, but it happened. Fans actually threw an octopus onto the rink for good luck in big games. I thought it was fucked up, even if it came from a fish market and wasn’t alive.

"Good evening, everyone! For those who don’t know me, I’m Robert Phillips, dean of UCLA. First, we’d like to welcome Cornell’s students and wish you a great game," he said in a solemn voice, and Cornell’s crowd cheered back.

"But today we have an announcement for UCLA and UCSD students." He looked around as another figure rushed in, adjusting a crooked tie. "Maximiano?"

He took the microphone and smiled.

"Good evening! I am the dean of UCSD, Maximiano Herrera," he said, and I felt a few curious glances turn toward me.

At UCSD, I was the hockey captain people questioned, wondering if I really deserved the position or if daddy had a hand in it, at least until they saw me play. But here in Los Angeles, that was news.

Yes, Maximiano was my father.

"First of all, I want to thank Dean Phillips and all of UCLA for welcoming us into their home during such a difficult time."

My father had a strong accent, since English wasn’t his first language. Unlike me, who was born in San Diego, he had spent much of his life in Bolivia before coming to America to chase the dream. Apparently, it had worked.

He ran a hand through his now grayer-than-brown hair, smiling in a way that made it impossible not to see the resemblance between us.

"We hope we can count on your hospitality a little longer," he continued, patting Phillips on the shoulder, earning a tight smile in return, probably thrilled to be managing this chaos with twice the students. "The renovations will take longer than initially expected."

Someone shouted for more explanation, and my father cleared his throat.

"In addition to repairing the burned area, the entire electrical system is being replaced. Even in unaffected areas, it must be fully inspected. So please be patient. We are working to return home as soon as possible."

Shit, I thought as he handed the mic back and walked off the rink like he might slip.

Shit for two reasons: first, I was sure he had less gray hair a month ago, and this crisis was probably aging him fast, and second, I had been enjoying the idea of a vacation in Los Angeles, but I’d been there long enough that I was dangerously close to agreeing that Santa Monica was better than La Jolla, which was offensive.

The UCLA crowd seemed to agree, judging by the murmurs, but Graham just slid down in his seat, resting his shoulders and placing his Adidas against the glass, grinning. He loved UCLA for the same reason I tolerated it: we were even more irresistible there.

He grabbed another piece of popcorn and, instead of eating it, aimed at one of the cheerleaders standing in the aisle.

Of course he aimed at a blonde, but hit the wrong one: Bárbara Hendler, also known as the heart-pajama neighbor, who turned toward him looking like she couldn’t stand UCSD for another second, blue eyes burning under her bangs.

"Oops, missed," Graham said, not bothered at all. "Don’t look at me like that, Barbie. It’s good news we’re here. Now you’ll have time to fall for your Ken."

He pointed his thumb at himself with a golden retriever grin.

Jesus, Bárbara was about to rip his heart out with her teeth. I crossed my arms and waited.

"Between falling for you and gouging my eyes out with a spoon, how long do you think it’d take me to learn braille?" she shot back, tossing her tied hair behind her shoulder.

I laughed, and her judging eyes slid toward me.

I knew she hated me. She had since the day I arrived making noise while cleaning the dorm. Somehow, that made me happy. It was satisfying having someone to annoy.

"Just say no, sweetheart," Graham said. "But I’d keep trying anyway. Cheerleaders are my weakness."

The girls around her looked at him like he was a cockroach. He waved cheerfully.

I recognized Brienne Santclair and Sarah Walsh among them, along with Troian Scott, who looked like she ruled the world.

Together, they were basically a Mean Girls clique.

Bárbara rolled her eyes, and I noticed she looked tired, dark circles under them.

Yeah, maybe making noise all night wasn’t exactly nice, but I didn’t know how to have quiet sex. Either I did it right or I didn’t do it.

"Leave her alone, Hayes," I said, kicking his heel.

She looked at me again, suspicious.

"I heard she didn’t sleep well."

She laughed without humor.

"Yeah, you son of a bitch…" she started.

"Me, on the other hand, slept like a baby," I added, leaning back.

I caught the pom-pom she threw at my face.

"Do you enjoy being insufferable?" she snapped.

"Only because you get all worked up," I said with a grin. "When you’re ready to admit all that anger is because you’re crazy about me, I’ll make sure it’s both of us making all that noise. If you ask nicely."

She looked me up and down. I did the same.

Truth be told, Bárbara Hendler was doll-level gorgeous.

"What’s the opposite of attraction, Herrera? That’s what I’m feeling," she said.

I smiled.

"Lie to yourself all you want, doll."

She turned away, annoyed, joining her friends as more cheerleaders arrived.

"Feels like the Berlin Wall," Dylan muttered beside me. "Dividing peasants and royalty."

I nodded as the announcer called the teams onto the rink.

Before the game, the cheerleaders performed while the players skated. Bárbara held out her hand for her pom-pom back.

I took it as an opportunity to grab her hand and kiss the back of it.

She nearly slapped me before snatching it back.

"Get lost, dog!" she snapped, walking away.

My friends burst out laughing as I watched her skate onto the ice, leading the routine.

I barely paid attention to anything else.

My eyes followed her gliding across the ice, confident, sharp, completely in control.

Then the whistle blew.

And the game began.

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