The Quarterback's Roommate

Chapter One – Move-In Day

(Eli POV)

By the time I lugged my third overstuffed box up three flights of stairs, I was already sweating through my favorite “Support Your Local Coffee Shop” hoodie. The box wobbled dangerously, bumping against my chin as I shoved my shoulder against the dorm door. With a dramatic kick, I stumbled into what would apparently be my new home.

And promptly tripped over a duffel bag the size of a small country.

“Seriously?” I wheezed, catching myself on the desk before face-planting. The box dropped onto the floor with a satisfying thud. I glared at the offending bag, all black with bold white letters: CRUZ.

Oh no.

Everyone on campus knew that name.

I straightened, brushed hair out of my face, and finally looked around the room. The right side—my side, hopefully—was blissfully bare. The left side… not so much. There were already neatly stacked textbooks (giant ones, like they were training weights), a couple of worn hoodies draped over the chair, and a pair of cleats tossed carelessly under the bed.

The bed itself dipped under the weight of a guy sitting on it, his forearms propped on his knees, his gaze fixed on me with the kind of intensity usually reserved for horror movies or job interviews.

Dante Cruz.

Quarterback. Team golden boy. Six-foot-something of muscle, tattoos, and don’t-mess-with-me vibes. I’d seen him around campus last semester, usually flanked by teammates and admirers. The kind of guy who probably had groupies waiting outside the locker room and never carried his own backpack.

And now… my roommate.

“Oh,” I said, eloquent as ever. “Uh. Hi.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just studied me—icy blue eyes sweeping from my messy box to my coffee-stained hoodie to my skinny jeans rolled at the ankle. Finally, his jaw flexed.

“You’re Summers?” His voice was deep, rough, like gravel had been mixed into it.

“Eli. Yeah.” I tried for a casual smile, even though my stomach was doing somersaults. “Your new partner in crime. Or, you know, cohabitation. Roommate. Whatever.”

One eyebrow lifted, and for a terrifying second I thought he might actually kick me back out into the hallway. Then he leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms, and the move made his biceps look like they were plotting a takeover.

Great. I’d be living with a human mountain.

I dropped to my knees and started unpacking, because doing something felt safer than standing there under his scrutiny. Out came my notebooks, my laptop covered in stickers, a mug shaped like a cat. I stacked them proudly on my desk, the chaos growing by the second.

From the corner of my eye, I could feel him watching.

“You always bring this much crap?” he finally muttered.

I gasped, clutching my cat mug protectively. “This isn’t crap. It’s personality.”

His lips twitched. Not a full smile, but close.

Encouraged, I glanced at his side of the room again—minimalist, organized, intimidating. Mine looked like a P*******t board gone rogue. The contrast was almost laughable.

“You’re neat,” I said, gesturing vaguely at his folded stack of shirts. “Like… military neat. Did they draft you into quarterback boot camp or something?”

That earned me a low grunt, which I chose to interpret as amusement.

For a few minutes, the silence stretched. He grabbed a water bottle, unscrewed it, took a swig. I unpacked more nonsense—sketchy fairy lights, a pillow shaped like a croissant, three notebooks with doodled covers. When I turned back, he was staring again, like he couldn’t decide if I was real or just some fever dream invading his space.

Finally, I broke the silence. “So. Ground rules? Do we, like, make a chore chart? Or do you already have a secret girlfriend who’s gonna throw my stuff out the window?”

That almost-smile flickered again, but his eyes stayed sharp. “No girlfriends. No chore chart. Just don’t touch my stuff.”

“Noted.” I gave him a mock salute. “In return, you don’t mock my fairy lights.”

“Fairy lights?”

“Obviously.” I held them up like a proud parent. “Ambience matters. Otherwise, what are we even doing here? Just existing?”

This time, his grunt definitely had amusement hidden inside it.

And just like that, I realized something: Dante Cruz might look like he’d rather throw me off the balcony, but under the scowl and the muscles… he wasn’t completely unapproachable. Maybe.

Still, when I stretched the fairy lights across my side of the room and plugged them in, casting the whole dorm in a soft golden glow, I caught his reflection in the window—his jaw tight, his eyes fixed firmly on me.

It wasn’t annoyance.

It was something else entirely.