All Chapters of The Quarterback's Roommate : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Chapter 1: Move in Day 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 late-August heat had turned the stairwell into a sauna, and each step felt like climbing a small mountain with a boulder strapped to my chest. My arms burned, my bangs stuck to my forehead in damp clumps, and the cardboard edges of the box kept digging into my forearms like tiny cardboard teeth. I paused on the landing to catch my breath, muttering curses under it, then shouldered the door open with all the grace of a drunk toddler. I stumbled into what would apparently be my new home for the next nine months. And promptly tripped over a duffel bag the size of a small country. “Seriously?” I wheezed, windmilling my arms as I caught myself on the edge of the nearest desk before I could eat carpet. The box slipped from my grip and landed with a heavy, dramatic thud that probably registered on the seism

Chapter 3: The Shirtless Problem I’d read somewhere in some pretentious literary blog, probably that great literature prepares you for every human emotion. Joy, grief, rage, despair, even love in all its messy forms. Clearly, whoever wrote that smug little sentence had never had to share a cramped dorm room with a six-foot-three athlete who treats shirts like an optional personality trait. The first time Dante peeled off his sweat-soaked practice jersey right there in the middle of our room, I told myself I’d be cool about it. Detached. Clinical, even. Just another human body. Shoulders, chest, abs perfectly normal anatomy, the kind you see in anatomy textbooks or gym mirrors. Nothing poetic. Nothing worth memorizing. Except my traitorous brain immediately launched into composing iambic pentameter about the sharp curve of his collarbone, the way the light from the desk lamp caught the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin, the slow roll of muscle under golden-brown skin as

Chapter 5 – Cracks in the Armor (Eli POV) I wasn’t expecting him to actually show up. Dante Cruz didn’t strike me as the type to honor appointments unless they came with a whistle, a playbook, or the promise of something measurable yards gained, pounds lifted, seconds shaved off a sprint. Library study sessions ranked somewhere between “optional dental cleaning” and “watching paint dry” on his list of preferred activities. So when I glanced up from my sprawl of color-coded notes and saw him leaning against the far wall near the philosophy stacks, I nearly sent the entire stack fluttering to the carpet. He looked absurdly out of place in the best possible way. Broad shoulders stretching the faded black hoodie to its limits, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the corded muscles of his forearms. Dark hair curling at the ends from the humidity outside, still slightly damp like he’d come straight from practice and hadn’t bothered with a full dry. His eyes scanned the rows of book

Chapter 7 – Almost Kiss Dante The night had fractured into jagged pieces long ago red Solo cups passed hand-to-hand like sacraments, chants rising for another round of beer pong that no one was sober enough to keep score properly, a girl in a cropped jersey attempting to dance on a coffee table until it gave a tragic groan and collapsed under her. My teammates were in their element, feeding off the chaos the way plants feed off sunlight. I used to be the same: loud, untethered, invincible in the middle of it all. Tonight, though, the noise felt distant, like it was happening behind thick glass. All I kept doing was checking over my shoulder for Eli. He’d claimed the far end of the sagging couch in the living room, perched on the very edge like he might need to launch himself toward the exit at any second. Legs drawn in tight, elbows on his knees, the half-full cup balanced precariously between his fingers. His curls had surrendered completely to the humid heat of too many bodies; da

Chapter 9 – Avoidance (Eli POV) By Monday, I had perfected the art of avoidance. It was ridiculous, really. The dorm room was barely bigger than a generous walk-in closet four strides from door to window, two from bed to bed and Dante Cruz was impossible to miss. Six-foot-three of quiet intensity, shoulders that seemed to occupy more space than physics should allow, and a presence that filled the room even when he was perfectly still. Yet somehow, with ruthless scheduling, strategic timing, and a generous helping of self-delusion, I managed to turn our shared shoebox into two separate universes. Mornings: up before the alarm, teeth brushed in under ninety seconds, backpack already zipped and slung over my shoulder while the shower was still running on his side. I’d slip out while steam still fogged the bathroom door, heart hammering like I’d just escaped a crime scene. Afternoons: library exile. I claimed the same corner table on the third floor every day, surrounding myself with