The lecture hall was packed tighter than my jeans after Thanksgiving dinner, and I could practically taste the thirst radiating from every básico in there. Everyone was sitting there like Benjamin was about to drop the secret to eternal happiness instead of the usual "chase your dreams, kids" garbage that every guest speaker copy-pastes from Pinterest quotes.
I slid into a seat near the back with Tariq, who was still high off his five-second interaction with campus royalty. Bro looked like he'd just met Jesus and got his autograph.
"Habibi, did you see how he looked at you?" Tariq whispered, practically vibrating with anxiety. "You're dead, Hugo. Like, absolutely mayyit. He's gonna have you deported or some shit."
"Cálmate, gordito," I said, keeping my eyes on the stage where Benjamin was getting mic'd up like he was about to perform at Madison Square Garden. "Everything's going según el plan."
Tariq stared at me like I'd just announced I was running for president. "What plan? The plan to get your ass handed to you by the guy who probably has the dean on speed dial?"
I didn't answer because our golden boy had started talking, and the entire room went quieter than a library during finals week. You could literally hear people holding their breath.
"Hey everyone," Benjamin said with that smile that probably cost more than my tuition. "I'm really excited to be here today to talk about leadership and making your mark at Westbridge University."
¡Ay, Dios mío! This pendejo was really about to serve us the same reheated motivational bullshit that every successful person regurgitates. I could probably predict his next three sentences: something about believing in yourself, working hard, and never giving up. Más básico que agua.
But I wasn't here for his sabiduría. I was here to execute phase one of my master plan—Operation Take the Throne.
Twenty minutes into his speech—right when he was getting to the predictable part about "embracing challenges and stepping out of your comfort zone"—I stood up. Not dramatically, not like some telenovela villain. Just casually, like I was heading to take a leak.
The movement caught his eye faster than a red flag at a bull fight. Benjamin paused mid-sentence, probably expecting me to sit my ass back down like a good little freshman. Instead, I started strolling toward the exit like I owned the place.
"Excuse me," Benjamin called out, his voice carrying that fake-sweet tone that screamed "I'm about to lose my shit but I'm on camera." "Is everything alright back there?"
I stopped and turned around, making sure every single person in that pinche lecture hall could get a good look at my face. This was it. Mi momento de gloria.
"Sí, todo bien," I said, then switched to English because I'm considerate like that. "Everything's perfect, actually. I just realized I've heard this exact same speech before."
The silence that followed was thicker than my abuela's hot chocolate. I could see Benjamin's jaw clench so hard I was worried he might crack a tooth. That perfect smile was hanging on by a thread.
"I'm sorry, what?" he said, trying to sound confused but looking más nervioso than a chihuahua in a thunderstorm.
"The speech, hermano," I continued, walking back toward the center like I was delivering my own TED talk. "It's not original. You literally just copy-pasted Jurgen Klopp's material and slapped your nombre on it."
The collective gasp from the audience sounded like air being sucked out of a vacuum. Phones started appearing faster than free pizza at a college party. This shit was about to trend harder than whatever dance these gringos were obsessing over this week.
Benjamin's face was turning redder than a jalapeño, and Becky looked like she wanted to teleport to another dimension. "That's... that's completely false," he stammered, his voice cracking like he was going through puberty again.
"¿De verdad?" I pulled out my phone with the confidence of someone who came prepared for war. "Want me to play the original right now? Because I've got Jurgen's speech queued up and ready to go, jefe."
The entire lecture hall was buzzing now, whispers spreading faster than gossip at a family reunion. I could see the Campus President in the front row looking like she was about to call security, her face whiter than queso fresco.
"I don't think that's necessary—" Benjamin started, but I was already hitting play.
Jurgen Klopp's voice filled the room: "The key to leadership is embracing challenges and stepping out of your comfort zone..."
The exact same words Benjamin had just said. Word for fucking word.
The crowd went absolutely loco. Students were laughing, recording, probably already posting this to every social media platform known to humanity. Benjamin looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor.
And that's when I knew I had him by the huevos. Benjamin O'Brien, the supposed king of Westbridge University, was about to get absolutely demolido by a Spanish exchange student who refused to kiss his culo.
"¡Órale!" I said, pocketing my phone with a grin. "Looks like we found your inspiration, ¿verdad?" Game over, cabrón. Long live the new king.
Don't tell me you're actually believing what you just read. You're so fucking dumb. Those were my thoughts—my beautiful, childish fantasies running wild in my head. Now let's face the reality of what actually went down that day.
"Hey, are you fine?" Benjamin said to some random freshman who was leaning against the wall like he was practicing for his fucking LinkedIn profile photo or something.
There was something absolutely nauseating about this dude that made my skin crawl. He thought he could showcase his fake-ass humility by gracing us peasants with his presence, maybe toss us some scraps of his royal attention, but homeboy couldn't hide that massive ego if his life depended on it. It was like watching someone try to stuff a watermelon into skinny jeans—awkward and painful for everyone watching.
The Campus President, in all her glorious lack of brain cells, had chosen this pendejo Benjamin to welcome us to Westbridge University like he was the second coming of Christ or some shit. ¡Por favor! This guy was about as inspiring as lukewarm dining hall pizza.
I was standing with Tariq just outside the hall where this whole circus was about to unfold. The golden couple—Benjamin and his celebrity arm candy Becky—were making their grand entrance like they were walking the red carpet at the Met Gala instead of just showing up to talk to a bunch of college freshmen.
A shitload of those básicos were already crammed in the lecture hall like it was a Taylor Swift concert, and a few girls with flowers were lined up in front of us, ready to throw their panties at this guy. Absolutely tragic.
"Hello!" Benjamin waved to the flower brigade, clutching Becky's hand like she was his emotional support animal. This fool was practically vibrating with excitement from all the ass-kissing—you could see it in his eyes, that desperate hunger for validation that screamed "daddy issues" louder than a car alarm.
When he reached us, Tariq completely lost his shit and stuck his hand out like Benjamin was about to knight him or some medieval bullshit. But me? I stood there like a fucking statue. Stone cold. Didn't move a muscle, didn't even blink. I was giving him less reaction than a dead fish.
Benjamin definitely clocked my energy because this cabrón had the audacity to extend his hand toward me next.
"Hey, good morning," he said with that plastic smile that probably took hours to perfect in the mirror.
And I straight up aired him. Left his ass hanging like a broken promise. The silence was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife, and I watched his fake-perfect expression crack in real time. Probably the first time in his privileged little life that someone didn't immediately drop to their knees to worship him.
Becky was too busy scrolling through her phone—probably checking how many millions of followers were kissing her ass online—to notice the absolute tension radiating between us. But ¡joder!, I had Benjamin's complete and undivided attention now.
As he walked into the lecture hall, I caught him turning back to stare at me, memorizing every detail of my face like I'd just made it onto his personal hit list. His jaw was clenched tighter than his grip on his girlfriend's hand.
And that, mis amigos, was exactly what I fucking wanted. I wasn't about to create some random enemy who didn't even know my name existed. Now Benjamin O'Brien knew exactly who Hugo González was—the Spanish exchange student who had the absolute balls to disrespect him in front of girls.
What do you think, mate? Is ignoring a popular dude cool? Let the games begin, cabrón.