All Chapters of The Quarterback's Roommate : Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Chapter 42 – Damage Control (Dante POV) The hospital discharged me at dawn. Eli drove slow careful, deliberate hands tight on the wheel like he was afraid the car might explode if he hit a single pothole. Snow had accumulated overnight, turning the roads into a slick gray mess, and he kept both hands at ten and two, eyes flicking between the windshield and me every few seconds. I sat shotgun with my left arm immobilized in the bulky sling, shoulder screaming every time we went over even the smallest bump. The pain meds they’d given me at discharge were doing their job, mostly—dulling the sharp edges to a low, throbbing ache—but the real pain sat deeper, heavier. Season over. Last college season. Gone in one stupid, preventable lift. We didn’t talk much on the drive back. Just the soft mechanical hum of the heater, the occasional crunch of tires over fresh snow, and the quiet rhythm of his thumb brushing over my knuckles whenever he could spare a hand from the wheel. It was enoug

Chapter 44 – Trust Tested (Dante POV) Riley’s visit left a bruise that had nothing to do with the shoulder. It wasn’t jealousy—not the sharp, possessive kind I’d felt back when some lit-major guy leaned too close to Eli in the library stacks. This was quieter, uglier. A slow, familiar rot creeping up from old ground I thought I’d paved over. Hearing her voice—casual, cutting, laced with that same half-amused pity she used to wield like a scalpel—dug everything up again. The implication that I was still the same guy who couldn’t commit, who’d always choose the clean exit over the messy stay. That Eli was just the latest distraction I’d eventually outgrow. I knew better. I’d said the words. He’d said them back. We’d kissed in half-lit hallways, held hands crossing the quad in broad daylight, stopped pretending the room was split down the middle with an invisible line no one could cross. But words and actions don’t always drown out ghosts. And Riley had always been good at summoning t

Chapter 46 – Media Backlash (Dante POV) The story broke on Monday morning. Not a national headline thank God but local enough to sting. The campus paper ran a short piece titled “Star QB Dante Cruz Sidelined for Season with Shoulder Injury,” accompanied by a grainy action shot from last fall’s home opener: me mid-throw, focused, untouchable, the stadium lights haloing my helmet. The article laid out the basics—the weight-room accident, the dislocated shoulder, the hairline clavicle fracture, the optimistic timeline for return (“possibly spring ball if rehab progresses well”). Then, buried in paragraph five like an afterthought, a single line: “Cruz was accompanied to the hospital by roommate Eli Summers, who has been a frequent presence during his recovery.” No quotes. No speculation. Just fact. But the comments section did the rest. I woke up to my phone buzzing nonstop—notifications from the team group chat, tags on X, a screenshot from Jax that read: “Y’all see this? They’re

Chapter 48 – Damage Control (Dante POV) The press release went out at 2 p.m. sharp. Coach kept it short three clean paragraphs on official letterhead, printed in the team’s navy-and-gold font: “Dante Cruz sustained a shoulder injury during off-season training. He is currently undergoing rehabilitation under the supervision of our athletic training staff and is expected to make a full recovery. The team remains focused on the upcoming spring practices and wishes Dante the best in his healing process.” No mention of me. No mention of us. No speculation about timelines beyond “full recovery.” Just facts, cold and clinical, the kind of statement designed to shut down questions before they started. But the internet doesn’t read between the lines it reads whatever it wants, twists whatever it can. By 3 p.m., the replies were flooding in. T*****r (people still called it that even after the rebrand) lit up first: - “QB came out and immediately got injured? Karma’s a bitch lol” - “Thi

Chapter 50 – Looming Storm (Dante POV) The calm lasted exactly four days. Four days of quiet rehab sessions where the physical therapist praised my range of motion like it was a personal victory. Four days of Eli quizzing me on kinesiology flashcards while we ate takeout on the bed orange chicken containers balanced on my lap, him cross-legged at the foot of the mattress, stealing bites from my fork between questions. Four days of late-night make-out sessions that stayed careful because of the sling but still left us both breathless and laughing against each other’s mouths soft giggles muffled against skin, hands careful but hungry, the fairy lights turning every touch golden. Four days where the online noise felt distant, like someone else’s problem, someone else’s life. Then Thursday morning the storm hit. I woke up to my phone vibrating itself off the nightstand buzz after insistent buzz until it clattered onto the carpet. Eli was already awake sitting at his desk, laptop open,