Todos os capítulos de The Quarterback's Roommate : Capítulo 71 - Capítulo 80

Chapter 71 – Injury Scare (Eli POV)The hit came on second-and-8 with 4:17 left in the third quarter.I saw it happen in slow motion from the family section—Dante dropping back, eyes scanning downfield, pocket collapsing faster than it should have. The defensive end looped around the edge untouched. Dante felt it late—too late. He tried to step up and throw. The guy drove a shoulder straight into Dante’s throwing side, helmet-first into the joint. They both went down hard.The stadium made that collective sucked-in-breath sound. Then silence. Then the groan when Dante didn’t get up right away.I stood so fast my phone slid off my lap and clattered under the seat in front of me. I didn’t pick it up.He stayed down longer than he ever does. Longer than any of the previous hits he’d shaken off tonight. Trainers jogged out. The head athletic trainer knelt beside him. Dante rolled to his side, then sat up—slow, careful, one hand pressed to his shoulder.The crowd

Chapter 73 – Holiday Homecoming (Eli POV) The drive from the airport took forty-seven minutes longer than G****e Maps promised because my mom insisted on stopping at the roadside stand for “just a few” cinnamon rolls. By the time we pulled into the driveway the sky was already the bruised purple of early winter dusk, and the porch lights were on—warm yellow spilling across the snow-dusted lawn like someone had hung fairy lights out there just for us. Dante sat in the passenger seat beside me, sling still on, good hand resting on his knee, staring at the house like it might bite. “You sure about this?” he asked quietly. Third time he’d asked since we landed. I killed the engine. Turned to face him. “Positive. Mom’s been texting me recipes for ‘shoulder-friendly’ mashed potatoes since Tuesday. Dad’s already cleared space in the garage for your protein shakes. They’re ready.” He exhaled through his nose—half laugh, half surrender. “Your dad still calls me ‘the quarterback’

Chapter 75 – Proposal Planning (Eli POV) I started a new note in my phone titled “Things That Are Not A Big Deal (Lie)”. Bullet point one: - Do NOT g****e “how to propose without looking like a P*******t fail” at 2 a.m. while he’s asleep next to you, heart hammering so loud you’re convinced it’ll wake him. Bullet point two: - Do NOT screenshot seventeen different ring photos—simple bands, star-etched insides, matte finishes, rose gold accents—then immediately delete them in a panic because what if he borrows your phone to order takeout and sees the evidence of your spiraling brain. Bullet point three: - Do NOT whisper “I love you” extra softly when he’s half-asleep just to see if he says it back differently now that you know what’s in his duffel bag, now that the weight of forever is sitting in velvet on his nightstand drawer. I failed all three within the first forty-eight hours of being back in our apartment after the holidays. He caught me on the third one. I was curle

Chapter 77 – Engagement Glow (Eli POV) I woke up with the ring on my finger and Dante’s face smushed into the crook of my neck like he was trying to hide from daylight itself. The fairy lights were still on low battery now, flickering in slow, sleepy pulses like they’d stayed up all night celebrating with us. Golden light danced across the ceiling, catching on the platinum band every time I moved my hand. I lifted it slowly, watched the tiny etched stars inside the band glint when I tilted my wrist just right. Real. Still real. I turned my head just enough to see him eyes closed, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, breathing slow and even, one tattooed arm slung possessively across my waist like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go. His hair was a mess swept back from sleep and my fingers running through it half the night and the faint stubble on his jaw scratched softly against my skin when he shifted closer in his sleep. I whispered against his temple, barely audible, “

Chapter 79 – Bachelor Weekend (Eli POV) The Airbnb my sister booked was supposed to be “rustic chic.” What it actually was: a cabin in the woods that looked like it had been decorated by someone who once saw a P*******t board called “Manly Retreat” and decided to commit crimes against taste. Wood-paneled walls. A stone fireplace big enough to roast a small village. A hot tub on the deck that smelled faintly of chlorine and regret. And—because my sister has a sense of humor—a life-size cardboard cutout of Dante in full game-day gear propped against the living-room wall like a silent chaperone. I stared at it the second we walked in. “Really, Mia?” She grinned from the doorway, arms full of grocery bags. “You said ‘low-key.’ I said ‘memorable.’” Dante walked in behind me carrying both our duffels (one-handed, stubborn as ever), saw the cutout, and stopped dead. Looked at me. Looked at the cardboard him. Looked back at me. “I’m not taking a photo with that.” “Too late