The Quarterback's Roommate
Just to look at the photo I took last week: him asleep on my couch, face half-buried in a throw pillow, one arm flung out, the sleeve of my hoodie riding up to show the edge of a tattoo I’ve traced a thousand times.
I stared at it until my vision blurred.
Then I whispered to the screen, “If you’re going to do it, you better do it soon, quarterback. Because I’m going to combust.”
The front door clicked open.
I startled so hard the phone nearly flew out of my hand.
Dante stepped inside—sweaty, flushed, hoodie tied around his waist, black compression shirt clinging to every line of muscle.
He looked at me.
Then at the phone I was clutching like contraband.