The Storyteller's Lens

A reflection on how love negotiates power

How long has it been since I last read a book that sat squarely in the romance genre? I had to think about it — and chuckled when I realised it was sometime in 2022 (or perhaps early 2023). The book was Red, White & Royal Blue.

And now, here I was, closing out 2025 with hockey players.

Was I getting bored with conventional romance tropes, or were my tastes undergoing a quiet 180? I’m not sure. What I do know is that the fact these stories had been adapted into a web series (which I’m yet to watch — and yes, I fully intend to, whenever they hit Indian screens) nudged my curiosity. I won’t pretend otherwise.

I began with Game Changer, not quite knowing what I expected. By the time I hit the 25% mark, it became clear that it had almost nothing in common with RWRB beyond the leads belonging to the same gender. RWRB thrives on big feelings, big gestures, and big politics. It’s charming, glossy, and idealistic — a modern fairy tale unfolding amid press briefings and palace corridors.

Game Changer, in contrast, is private. Domestic. Emotionally unshowy. The romance isn’t trying to impress the reader — it’s simply happening. Shared space. Lingering looks. Comfort sneaking in before either man fully realises what it is. Perhaps that’s why I was already sold so early. The connection felt lived-in rather than staged. Chemistry arose from emotional safety and curiosity rather than conquest. There was softness coexisting with desire.

The sex is hot, yes — but what truly landed was the tenderness. That’s rare, particularly in sports romance, where masculinity often gets overperformed. Game Changer doesn’t climax in one grand arc. Instead, it breathes: ensemble potential through locker-room dynamics, slow emotional progression, and characters who don’t resolve everything in a single confession.

When Scott says, “I’m a closet. I never thought I’d go on a date or have a boyfriend,” it isn’t staged as a dramatic coming-out moment. It feels like a confession of absence. He isn’t naming who he is — he’s naming what he never allowed himself to imagine. For a man who is a champion, a captain, someone physically dominant on the ice, that admission quietly flips the power equation. Success doesn’t protect him. Status doesn’t soften fear. Masculinity doesn’t shield longing.

And then there’s Kip’s flutter of unease when Scott offers to buy him a tuxedo.

That moment isn’t about greed. Or embarrassment. It’s about imbalance. When two men date, there’s no culturally assigned “provider” role. No default script for who gives and who receives. No social cushioning for insecurity. Every gesture carries weight. Is this generosity — or power? Am I being cared for — or diminished? One person’s hope begins to feel small beside another’s certainty. The imbalance here isn’t of love; it’s of risk. And that risk keeps shifting hands.

Straight romances come padded with centuries of expectation. This one doesn’t. Here, desire, visibility, and worth are being negotiated simultaneously — by both people. Perhaps that’s why it felt rawer. By comparison, many boy-girl dynamics begin to feel almost… rehearsed.

That said, four hundred pages is a long stretch for a romance — and there were more than a few eye-rolls courtesy of the epidemic of shy glances and blushing pink cheeks. I’m used to scanning for the next hurdle, the next turn, the next payoff. Instead, Game Changer offered comfort, doubt, reassurance — and repeat. Very realistic. Very uncinematic. I had to adjust how I read it: stop hunting for “what’s next,” treat it as emotional ambience, let scenes wash rather than pull — and ignore the blushing.

Then came Heated Rivalry.
Or, as I mentally renamed it: What if the blushing stopped and the teeth came out?

Ilya Rozanov isn’t written to be likeable at first. He’s meant to be intrusive. His bravado isn’t random; it’s directed. Personal. And that’s precisely why Shane can’t disengage. Annoyance alone doesn’t do that. Recognition does. Their early orbiting isn’t just about attraction — it’s about the impossibility of dismissing the other as irrelevant. That is the real spark.

The foreplay between two fiercely competitive men falls firmly into the unhinged in the best possible way category. Ridiculous fun. Not candles. Not longing glances. But: “He did it better than me.” “Oh yeah? I’ll fix that.” “How many times?” “Fine. I’ll outdo him.” Desire becomes a challenge. Intimacy turns into a contest. Insecurity fuels motivation. They aren’t trying to impress a lover — they’re trying to win.

Absurd. Juvenile. Comic. Endearing. Hot.
Like watching two Olympic athletes turn intimacy into a scoreboard.

This doesn’t read like romance. It reads like identity collision — with attraction leaking out under pressure. Rivalry isn’t a trope here; it’s a structural constraint. The book doesn’t balance rivalry and romance. It refuses to separate them. These aren’t two men falling in love despite rivalry. They fall in love through it. Which is one of the hardest dynamics to write — and one of the most satisfying to read when done right.

As the story progresses, particularly past the halfway mark, Ilya’s layers begin to surface. His ego reveals itself as armour. Arrogance masks fear of rejection. Restraint masquerades as indifference. But as these layers peel away, Shane begins to slide into a role that feels uncomfortably familiar — the emotional axis, around which Ilya adjusts himself. A male version of a female lead. That shift didn’t entirely sit right with me. Since their story continues in another book, I’ll reserve a deeper critique until I read it.

Taken together, these two very different love stories share something quietly radical. Longing exists without entitlement. Hesitation is rooted in fear, not ego. Consent is central, not decorative. Vulnerability is erotic. In a culture where male desire is so often portrayed as something that must conquer, this tenderness-as-strength feels like a meaningful departure.

And perhaps that’s what stayed with me after I closed the books.