Desired by All and He Threw Away 11

Posted by ADMINMMADMIN, ? Views, Released on December 31, 2025

Facebook Twitter WhatsApp Pinterest Telegram

Taylor POV

For a second, I almost feel relief–justice for the hit Dylan delivered–but then my gaze shifts back to Aiden sprawled on the turf.

Something doesn’t add up. From where I’m standing, I catch the subtle tension of his body.

His core remains tight, his shoulders anchored, the kind of posture that protects instead of collapses. If he were truly injured, his frame would have folded, muscles giving way. But they don’t.

He’s holding himself in control. He’s faking.

A mix of anger and wonder runs through me as I watch Aiden use Dylan’s mistake to his advantage.

Aiden proves his strategic nature by using Dylan’s foul as his own attacking opportunity. I hold my clipboard against my ribs while I kneel next to him before speaking in a voice that I try to keep low. “You’re fine,” I murmur, softer than I mean to.

Compassion sneaks through, the part of me that can’t help but care “That’s a healer’s heart talking, not a fool’s eyes.”

For the briefest moment something flickers in his gray eyes, curiosity, maybe even surprise. Then the mask slides back into place, cold and unreadable. Behind us, Dylan explodes.

“He went for me first! He targeted me!” His voice cracks with fury hands flung wide, but the referee isn’t buying it.

“Off the field, number seven!” The official’s tone is sharp, final.

The boos cascade from the stands like a storm.

Fans hurl curses, plastic cups, their voices a living wave that drowns Dylan as he storms toward the sideline. He clinches his jaw as rage rolled off him like heat.

Aiden pushes himself up, brushing dirt from his uniform as if nothing ever happened. He stretches once and rolls his shoulder. No limp.

No weakness. Just the calm assertion of someone who knows the board is his to command. “I can keep playing,” he says evenly, and the crowd roars in approval.

I swallow down the lump in my throat, torn between admiration and unease. Just as the final whistle blows, Aiden’s team claims victory, and we weren’t surprised. The scoreboard blazes numbers that make the crowd erupt in thunderous chants.

The stadium trembles with celebration, banners waving, people singing. But my focus is on the sideline–on the storm brewing there. Dylan plants himself like a barricade in front of Ella as she makes her way toward Aiden.

He pushes his hand out to block her path. I couldn’t hear what he said to her, but his body says enough, he looks possessive, desperate almost feral. Ella’s response is pure fire.

She shoves past him, squaring her shoulder and her eyes blazing with determination.

My chest tightens.

Aiden’s teammates close in, blocking Dylan’s path as his frustration spikes. I can almost hear the grind of his teeth from here.

His fists clench, shoulders straining, and for a heartbeat I wonder he’ll break free and do something stupid. But Ella is already at Aiden’s side. I linger near the tunnel, pretending to be busy, clipboard pressed to my chest.

My ears strain, trying to catch fragments of their voices. “…rekind ng old feelings…when you saw me with Taylor…” Aiden’s low question drifts faintly to me, wrapping around my ribs like a tightening cord.

The stadium noise drowns out the remaining words which I struggle to hear while people walk in groups, cheers erupting like thunderclaps and the announcer speaks loudly to block out the essential information.

The loud noises from the stadium create a painful effect on my ears, mocking me with fragments I can’t seem to piece together. I push my body against the freezing concrete wall while my fingernails penetrate my skin as my blood pressure rises with my

1/3

Chapter 1

+25 Bonus

growing anger.

What did she say? Or did she smile that soft smile she saves for him?

Time stretches, each second dragging like a weight across my chest until at last Ella steps into view.

Her face tells a story her lips don’t. Her body relaxes as she walks, the tension from earlier has disappeared. Her entire body looks relaxed as she moves forward while her cheeks display a soft glow that suggests she heard something she has longed for.

Her eyes sparkle, reflecting secrets I’ll never be invited to share, and at the corner of her mouth lingers the trace of a smile- private, content, untouched by the turmoil clawing through me. My stomach knots, twisting tighter with every step she takes past me without a glance.

What did he tell her? Are they getting back together?

Why would I care, though. Even if they are not getting back together, it’s a big step and clearly my job is done.

The team funnels out of the locker room, their laughter and victory chants bouncing off the narrow tunnel walls, and I follow in

their wake.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, pulse kicking faster when I see the name. Dylan. He’s unblocked my number.

The message is short, sharp, desperate: “Is Ella getting back together with Aiden?” Heat flares in my chest. He knows better than to ask me this. My thumbs fly, typing back: “I’m not allowed to share any information about my employer.”

The reply comes almost instantly. “Come on, Tay. Don’t be like that.”

That old nickname. Tay. It scrapes across old scars, stirring ghosts’d buried. Once upon a time it use to melted me.

But tonight it makes me want to scream.

Another bubble pops up. “Remember us? How good we were?” His words drip with nostalgia, sticky sweet and dangerous.

I squeeze my phone so tight until the edges bite into my palm. My chest aches with the weight of memory of the late night drives, the whispered promises. For a moment, I look back, the old pull tugging at me.

But then I remember him and Ella on the kiss cam. The stadium’s roar and smell of sweat and turf. I feel the raw pulse of everything I have witnessed that day. I type, steady and final: “This isn’t about us anymore. Don’t contact me like this again.”

No response.

Just silence. But unease lingers, twisting in my gut. If Ella is smiling for Aiden while Dylan still claws at her with sweet words, then maybe she isn’t choosing at all.

Maybe she’s keeping them both. The thought stings more than I expect.

The bus waits outside, sleek and gleaming under stadium lights.

Inside, the air hums with soft engines and the faint scent of antiseptic mixed with sweat. Medical tables line one side, cabinets stacked with ice packs, bandages and muscle relaxants. A massage cable is already in use, one of the trainers working knots from a lineman’s shoulders.

I slip into the rhythm of work. Ice bags, hydration checks, stretching routines, . My clipboard fills with notes in my cramped handwriting. It is almost enough to drown out the buzzing questions in my head.

Almost. A burst of laughter escapes my lip. A teammate, broad–sheldered and still riding the high of victory, waves Aiden over, phone glowing in his hand.

“Look at this,” he crows. “It’s been two minutes and the video already has thousands of views!” Aiden takes the phone, his expression flat until the sound plays. Then his eyes darken.