Desired by All and He Threw Away 8

Chapter 8 

Aiden POV 

The heat of her body is still against me when I snap back to myself 

One second my eyes are closed, finally calm, the next she’s draped across me like she belongs there. My chest tightens–not from pain but from irritation. I shove her back, palms firm against her shoulders. 

“You’re in such a hurry to climb all over me?” My voice cuts sharp meant to sting. 

Her eyes widen, breath hitching, like she didn’t expect me to notice. 

Please. 

They always think they’re clever. Always think I won’t see through it. 

“It was an accident,” she blurts, voice cracking. “I tripped over the basket.” 

My mouth twists, but not into anything kind. “I know enough. Just another bottom–feeder pretending this is about work.” 

She fires back, voice tight with anger, and for a second I see something in her–fire, desperation, maybe both. “This is my career. My dream. I fought to get here. You think I’d throw that away? You think I’d humiliate myself in front of half the staff just to get near you?” 

I tilt my head, watching her like I watch my game re–run footage, searching for cracks. “Just because you have a job doesn’t mean you have dreams.” 

My words land the way I want them to: heavy, undeniable. But then, movement distracts me. I sit up, shoulders rolling, expecting the usual pinch, the tug low in my back that’s been dragging me down for weeks. 

Except nothing. No pain. I pause, hand pressing against the spot 

My brows rise. “My back…” I mutter. I twist, testing the motion again. 

Still nothing. Shock flickers through me before I can mask it. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.” 

“How-” My eyes snap to hers, sharp. “You did all that on your own?” She doesn’t flinch. 

For once, she doesn’t shrink. “Yes. That was me. Every technique used, I chose it for a reason.” 

I study her. There’s confidence there–real, not faked. I don’t like giving ground, but I’m not blind either. 

I let out a slow breath. “Maybe you have some skill after all.” Her chin lifts. 

“Not maybe. I know what I’m doing. I studied methods that go deeper than surface–level relief.” she says. 

“Trigger points, fascia release… It’s not just rubbing muscles, it’s working with how the body actually responds.” Bold. Too bold for someone in her position. 

She’s not wrong–but that doesn’t mean I’ll hand her a victory. “Fine.” I let the word fall flat, reluctant. 

“You can stay.” 

The relief flashes in her eyes, quick, but I snuff it out before it can breathe. 

“I’m only giving you three chances,” My voice drops, steel hard. You falling on me has used up your first warning. Two more mistakes, and you’re done.” 

“Just like that? Based on your word alone?” She bristles. 

“Yes.” No hesitation. My word is final. “Always has been.” 

She swallows whatever fight she wants to throw back, and I can almost see the vow forming in her eyes. 

1/3 

Chapter 8 

+25 Bonus 

I drag my jersey back over my head, every movement controlled. 

When I’m dressed, I glance her way one last time. “We’ll see how you perform,” I say. 

The therapy room fades into noise and motion as we leave. Soon we’re with the others, loading onto the bus. 

We are on our way to a game tonight. Against the club that signed ylan for this season. 

Luxury spread–TVs, a bar, the kind of setup designed to keep men like us sharp, comfortable, and untouchable. 

Coaches huddle in the back, voices low, while tension coils thick in the air. Tonight’s match is coming and everyone feels it. I catch fragments of talk drifting between teammates. 

Dylan’s name slips out. 

“Little Aiden,” someone mutters with that half–sneer, half–laugh 

The words grate, but I don’t react. I don’t need the full story. The media has been writing about it for a month or so, since Dylan was signed into that club and started training. 

Dylan, the golden boy. Dylan, the heir apparent. Same position, same skill set. 

Only difference? He’s fresher, shinier. The press eats that up. They want a changing of the guard. 

I went to his debut game a week ago to check if we should sign him for the next season. 

Now I’m one hundred percent sure that it will never happen. 

On the TV overhead, I hear the word that sticks like a thorn. “Downfall.” I scoff under my breath and cut through it with instructions to the team. Weaknesses in Dylan’s game, where to press, how to snap him out of rhythm. 

My voice is casual enough, but every note lands. Strategy disguised as conversation. 

Confidence is armor, and I wear it better than anyone. 

Taylor POV 

I stay on the edges, following the head physiotherapist toward the stadium entrance. My badge feels like a key I barely deserve to hold. The place is so massive, buzzing with energy that vibrates hrough the walls. 

This is my first time at an event like this–my chest tightens with the noise, the scent of popcorn and sweat that is already thick 

in the air. 

I went to use the restroom real quick before the game started. Who knows if I will get the time later. 

By the time I step out of the restroom, I realize that I might have wandered too far down the corridor. 

The badge hanging against my chest is so useless when the signs overhead blur into a tangle of arrows. And then I see him. Dylan. 

He looks the same and different all at once. Same sunlit smile, the one that used to disarm me. Same sharp jaw, same confident stride. 

But the air between us feels wrong now, tainted. His charm doesn’catch the way it used to; it slides off me like oil. 

“Well, well,” he drawls, stepping closer. 

“Didn’t think you’d still be hung up on me. You came to watch me lay, huh?” The arrogance really makes my stomach twist. I square my shoulders. 

“Don’t flatter yourself.” 

His grin only widens. “Don’t lie. You miss me.” 

“No,” I snap, my voice harder than I expected. “What I miss is the money you still owe me. Remember that? You think I forgot?” 

2/3 

Chapter 8 

For the first time, his grin falters. 

+25 Bonus 

But only for a second. He leans in, lowering his voice like he is shading some private joke. “I could pay you back… with my body.” 

“Come on, Taylor. Don’t act like you don’t want me. You’ve always been obsessed.” 

His hand brushes my waist, without permission. Heat flares in my heeks–not the old kind, but fury. 

“Don’t touch me.” I shove him back, my pulse racing. 

He stumbles, then laughs out really loud and careless. “Relax.” 

“I actually like your body better now, it’s softer. And Real. Not like Ella. She is just a stick–thin model.” 

Rage coils so tight inside me that it hurts. I shove him harder this time, my voice rising. “You’re so disgusting.” 

But before I can step away, his hands grab onto my wrist. His grip is like iron and his smile venomous. “You still want me, Taylor. Don’t pretend-” 

And then he’s gone. 

A hand, stronger and sharper, yanks him back. Dylan jerks, his arm twisted away from me. 

Aiden stands behind him, his eyes burning. His grip on Dylan’s arm is tight, so unyielding that every inch of him looks like a storm about to break. 

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