The Perfect Lie

I HAD A THEORY: every hockey player was a complete asshole.

Starting with Elijah Clint, the captain of the UCLA hockey team the University of California, Los Angeles who was absolutely sure the world was at his feet every time he wore that blue, white, and gold jersey. Maybe the colors really did suit him, or maybe one of the requirements for the position was having a mile-long ego, but it could also be because people genuinely treated him like some funny little demigod.

But even so, at least he was nice. I only found that out because, apparently, it was the mission of his team and mine the cheerleaders to hook their captain up with ours, which, in this case, was me.

I could even understand the appeal: kisses on the field with matching uniforms, the pure essence of a teen movie cliché, so it seemed right. But half an hour with Clint was enough to realize he wasn’t interested, especially since he paid more attention to another cheerleader than to me. Not in a douchey way, it just seemed… like he liked her.

In his defense, I had also been paying more attention to other people around us.

So yeah, he still fit into the asshole category, just in a less obvious way.

On the other hand, the captain of the UCSD hockey team the University of California, San Diego took pride in being the very definition of the stereotype: a huge, huge, huge asshole who was convinced he was the embodiment of the divine among mortals ever since he realized that his “V” shaped muscles disappearing into the waistband of his pants made girls incredibly stupid, strutting on the ice and deliberately wiping nonexistent sweat from his face as he prepared for the next period of the game.

"He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?" one of the girls beside me asked quietly, pointing at the captain with her chin.

I lifted my eyes to him, watching him for a second. His jersey was a darker shade of blue than UCLA’s, his name printed on the back, and I read “N. Herrera, 49” a second before he turned around, helmetless, tapping his stick on the ground.

And yeah, he was gorgeous. Unbearably gorgeous.

As the UCSD team skated toward us, I noticed his brown hair falling loosely over his forehead, long enough for him to use it to his advantage. He was almost two meters tall a fact the announcer had mentioned about ten thousand times but he wasn’t just tall.

His shoulders were broad, his arms strong, and his thighs well-defined. His face had freckles I could see even from there with the spotlight hitting him, and a huge smile from someone I knew could get plenty of girls out of their underwear.

"Yeah, I guess he’s kind of cute," I replied, looking down at the phone I kept hidden in my pocket.

Declan was ignoring my messages. All of them. And as much as I was literally humiliating myself waiting for a sign of life from him, a reply to know if everything was really over, begging him to reconsider… nothing.

Sarah scoffed.

"Kind of cute? I’d give a lot to wake up in his bed," she laughed before nudging me with her shoulder. "You’re saying that because of Declan, aren’t you?"

"I don’t want to talk about it," I replied, turning to her.

"Sorry, okay? I know he’s an asshole, Barb." In response, it was my turn to scoff.

He wasn’t…

"Who’s an asshole?" an unfamiliar voice asked as a huge shadow fell over me. I slipped my phone into my cheer uniform pocket and looked up at the man standing over me, his hand resting on the protective glass behind me.

I was 1.60 meters tall, so it felt like two of me stacked on top of each other when I looked up at Nicolas Herrera.

Still, I raised an eyebrow and crossed my arms, staring into his brown eyes and that half-smile that was practically a warning: I’m going to make you laugh until you end up naked in my bed.

"I’ll give you a chance to guess," I said, looking him up and down.

Given his size, it took a bit longer than I would’ve liked, but he didn’t seem intimidated.

"I thought UCLA people were friendlier," he pointed out, and I tilted my head as he ran his fingers through his straight hair. Looking closely, when the spotlight hit it, I couldn’t tell if it was light or dark brown. "Aren’t you the ones who are always trying to promote friendship between colleges?" he continued, and I blinked, trying to understand what he was saying.

Was he hitting on me? Was it like a fetish or something? Trying his luck with the rival team’s cheerleader?

"I don’t need new friendships, I need you to get out of my way," I snapped, irritated.

His brown eyes flashed with surprise for a moment. No one seemed to turn down the team captain, and, to be honest, I was more than irritated that day to have the nerve to be the first.

He placed a hand on his chest, theatrical. A new kind of spark flickering in his eyes.

"I wanted to keep being nice and clueless, but the truth is I was sent here from the future. We’ve been married for twenty years and you just asked me how our first meeting went," I frowned, confused. "I remember you were hostile to me at this game, but you soon gave in to my charms and we went to the movies, didn’t we, Barbie?" he said my nickname with a certain authority.

His eyebrows bounced up and down several times, excited. That cute smile dancing across his face.

God, I had zero patience for this.

"Well," I began, sharp as a knife, "tell your future self that…" I started, stepping forward to face him properly, but when I did, something didn’t feel right on the ice, so I looked down, watching our skates.

Nicolas seemed to notice.

"What the hell…" he started, and then I saw something strange.

Water. There was water on the ice.

Then one of the doors opened on the other side of the arena and someone shouted:

"Fire! Fire!"

A cloud of black smoke was flooding the rink.

My eyes widened in fear.

I didn’t have much time to react, because as soon as I realized what was happening, Nicolas Herrera grabbed my hand and started running to the other side while flames began to pour in through the windows.