TomeTracker

Charting stories that bend time, break boundaries, and celebrate queer voices. From sapphic slow burns to trans time‑travel epics, every review is a breadcrumb on the trail of LGBTQ+ literature worth losing yourself in. 📚 Honest takes • Thoughtful analysis • A timeline of tales that matter.

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Heated Rivalry TV Adaptation Episode 4 "Rose" Review: Intimacy, Longing, and the Fragility of Connection

This episode, titled “Rose,” feels like the show finally hitting its stride again after the detour into Scott’s backstory last week. We’re thrown back into the charged dynamic between Shane and Ilya, and the storytelling cleverly uses texting montages to bridge years of their relationship without losing intimacy. It’s a bold editing choice, but it works because the texts are juxtaposed with visuals that reveal what words alone cannot. The result is a layered exploration of how their connection evolves from casual hook-ups into something far more complicated and tender.

What makes this episode stand out is its ability to capture the contrast between their lives. Shane is portrayed as grounded, preferring quiet nights at home, while Ilya is restless, torn between partying and caring for his father. This duality underscores the tension between them, and it’s handled with subtlety rather than melodrama. The hockey backdrop remains important, with Shane’s back-to-back championship wins adding professional triumph to the mix, yet the real drama lies in the private sphere. The show doesn’t shy away from the loneliness of long-distance, the awkwardness of Hayden trying to play matchmaker, or the bittersweetness of stolen nights together.

The performances elevate the script. Hudson Williams as Shane and Connor Storrie as Ilya bring a quiet vulnerability that makes their chemistry believable. There’s a palpable sense of longing in their scenes, especially when Ilya watches a programme about Shane’s home on an Ontario lakefront, which feels like a metaphor for how much of Shane’s world he’s excluded from. It’s a small detail, but it lands with emotional weight.

If there’s a slight drawback, it’s that the pacing occasionally feels rushed. Covering two years of development in a single episode means some moments are skimmed over, and viewers might wish for more time to linger on the subtleties of their growing affection. Still, the briskness is offset by the richness of the emotional beats we do get.

Thematically, “Rose” is about the danger of falling hard, and the episode succeeds in showing both the exhilaration and the risk. It’s romantic, yes, but also tinged with melancholy, reminding us that their love story is built on secrecy and distance. That complexity is what makes the episode so compelling.

Overall, the episode earns its 4.75 stars because it combines sharp editing, nuanced performances, and emotional resonance. It’s not flawless, but it’s close, being arguably one of the best 45 minutes of television I have seen this year, and it leaves you eager for what comes next. Heated Rivalry proves here that it’s more than just a sports drama; it’s a queer love story told with sincerity and bite.

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The Long Game by Rachel Reid Review: A Mature, Messy, and Rewarding Portrait of Lasting Love

The Long Game by Rachel Reid is one of those sequels that feels both inevitable and surprising. It picks up with Shane and Ilya, the central pairing from Heated Rivalry, and asks the question of what happens after the happily ever after. In many ways it is a book about maintenance, about the work required to sustain love when the initial rush of passion has settled into something deeper and more ordinary. That premise alone makes it stand out in a genre that often stops at the first kiss or the grand romantic gesture.

What Reid does brilliantly is balance the domestic with the dramatic. There are quieter moments of everyday intimacy, like cooking together or navigating family dynamics, but these are interspersed with the high-stakes world of professional hockey. The tension between public and private life is handled with nuance, showing how difficult it can be to reconcile a relationship with careers that thrive on secrecy, image, and competition. The writing is warm and witty, with dialogue that feels natural and affectionate without ever tipping into saccharine.

The strength of the novel lies in its emotional honesty. Shane and Ilya are allowed to be flawed, sometimes insecure, sometimes stubborn, and that makes their relationship feel lived-in. Their chemistry is undeniable, but what really resonates is the way they negotiate compromise and vulnerability. Reid captures the push and pull of long-term commitment with a sensitivity that makes the book feel mature without losing the spark of romance.

That said, the pacing does occasionally falter. There are stretches where the narrative leans heavily into domestic detail, which, while charming, can feel repetitive. Some readers may find themselves wishing for more external conflict or sharper plot turns. Equally, the hockey backdrop, though authentic, sometimes risks overshadowing the emotional core, particularly for those less invested in the sport.

Overall, The Long Game earns a solid 4.5 out of 5 stars. It is a thoughtful continuation that refuses to settle for easy answers, instead offering a portrait of love that is messy, resilient, and deeply rewarding. The slight dips in pacing prevent it from being flawless, but its heart and craft more than compensate. It is a book that lingers, not because of grand declarations, but because of its insistence that love is not just about falling, but about staying.

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Heated Rivalry TV Adaptation Episode 3 "Hunter" Review: A Tender Shift from Rivalry to Romance

What makes this episode stand out is its willingness to take a risk. After two instalments centred on Shane and Ilya’s secret romance, the series pivots to focus almost entirely on Scott Hunter and Kip, a pairing that feels fresh yet still connected to the wider world of Rachel Reid’s novels. This decision could have been jarring, but instead it breathes new life into the show. By stepping away from the central couple, the writers prove that Heated Rivalry is not just about one relationship but about the broader tapestry of queer love stories in the hockey world.

The meet-cute between Scott and Kip is delightfully ordinary, which is precisely why it works. Scott, weighed down by a bad season and relentless media scrutiny, stumbles into a smoothie shop and meets Kip, who serves him a blueberry-banana concoction with a smile. Their chemistry is immediate, and the fact that Kip initially has no idea who Scott is adds a layer of innocence and authenticity. It’s a romance that feels grounded, less turbulent than Shane and Ilya’s, but no less compelling. The episode balances fluff with angst, showing Kip’s gradual awareness of Scott’s fame and the pressures that come with it.

Thematically, this episode explores identity and visibility in a way that feels both intimate and universal. Scott’s struggles with public perception contrast beautifully with Kip’s quiet, artistic life. Their dynamic highlights the tension between private happiness and public scrutiny, a theme that resonates strongly in queer storytelling. The flashbacks to the Sochi Olympics add depth, reminding us of the wider context of bravery and representation in sport.

Stylistically, the episode is paced with care. The shift away from the fiery rivalry of Shane and Ilya to the softer, more tentative romance of Scott and Kip could have slowed the momentum, but instead it offers a welcome breather. The cinematography leans into warmth and intimacy, with lingering shots that capture the tentative beginnings of love. It’s a tonal change, but one that feels deliberate and rewarding.

If there’s a slight drawback, it’s that viewers invested in Shane and Ilya might feel momentarily sidelined. Their absence is noticeable, and while the episode succeeds in broadening the scope of the series, it risks alienating those who tuned in specifically for the central couple. That said, the gamble pays off, because Scott and Kip’s story is engaging enough to stand on its own.

Overall, episode three is a triumph of storytelling that proves Heated Rivalry is more than just one romance. It’s a series willing to take risks, to expand its universe, and to give space to quieter, more tender narratives. The balance of meet-cute charm, emotional depth, and thematic resonance makes this episode one of the strongest so far. A near-perfect entry, held back only by the temporary absence of the main couple, but still deserving of its 4.5 stars.

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Heated Rivalry TV Adaptation Episode 2 "Olympians" Review: Intimate Tension, Texting Mishaps, and Olympic Stakes

The second episode of Heated Rivalry, titled Olympians, takes a step back from the fast-paced introduction of the pilot and instead lingers in the quieter, more intimate corners of Shane and Ilya’s world. What makes this instalment so compelling is the way it slows down the narrative without losing momentum. We’re no longer rushing through drafts and career milestones; instead, we’re allowed to sit with the characters, to watch them text, hesitate, delete, and reveal themselves in ways that feel both painfully awkward and beautifully tender.

The opening montage of Ilya sexting Shane is a stroke of genius. It’s cheeky, funny, and slightly mortifying, which perfectly captures the dynamic between them. Shane’s anxiety over every unsent message is relatable to anyone who has ever hovered over the “send” button, and it adds a layer of vulnerability to his otherwise polished persona. This is where the show shines: it’s not just about hockey rivalries or steamy encounters, it’s about the small, human moments that make relationships feel real.

What’s particularly impressive is how the episode balances tone. On one hand, it leans into the humour of mismatched personalities, with Ilya’s brash confidence clashing against Shane’s cautious restraint. On the other, it doesn’t shy away from the emotional weight of their situation. The secrecy of their relationship, set against the backdrop of the Olympics, underscores the tension between personal desire and public expectation. It’s a reminder that queer love stories in sport are still rare, and the show treats that rarity with respect rather than melodrama.

Visually, the episode is stylish without being overproduced. The hockey sequences are minimal, which might disappoint viewers expecting more on-ice drama, but the focus on character-driven storytelling feels deliberate. The camera lingers on glances, pauses, and silences, making the chemistry between Hudson Williams and Connor Storrie all the more palpable. Their performances elevate the material, turning what could have been clichéd into something genuinely affecting.

If there’s a slight drawback, it’s that the pacing occasionally risks dragging. Spending so much time on texting and quiet exchanges means the episode lacks the punch of the pilot’s energy. Yet, this slower rhythm is also what allows the emotional beats to land. It’s a trade-off, and while some viewers might crave more action, others will appreciate the intimacy.

Overall, Olympians succeeds in deepening our investment in Shane and Ilya. It’s witty, heartfelt, and just a little bit spicy, proving that Heated Rivalry is more than a sports romance, it’s a nuanced exploration of identity, desire, and connection. The episode earns its 4.5 stars by daring to slow down and trust its characters to carry the story.

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Heated Rivalry TV Adaptation Episode 1 "Rookies" Review: A Tense, Queer Slow-Burn That Scores Big

The opening episode, titled “Rookies,” wastes no time in setting the stage for what is clearly going to be a slow-burn romance wrapped in the trappings of a sports drama. We meet Shane Hollander, the golden boy of Canadian hockey, and Ilya Rozanov, the brash Russian talent who immediately positions himself as Shane’s foil. Their first encounter is awkward, almost anticlimactic, with Shane attempting a polite introduction and Ilya brushing him off. Yet that moment plants the seed of rivalry, and the show cleverly fast-forwards to their professional debuts on opposing teams, Montreal and Boston, where the tension between them begins to crystallise.

What makes this episode so effective is its refusal to drown itself in hockey minutiae. There’s very little actual sport on screen, which might disappoint die-hard fans, but the focus is squarely on the emotional and interpersonal stakes. The camera lingers on glances, body language, and the subtle shifts in tone that suggest attraction beneath the antagonism. It’s a bold choice, and it pays off, because the series is less about the mechanics of the game and more about the chemistry between two men who can’t seem to stay away from each other.

The performances are a highlight. Hudson Williams as Shane captures the earnestness and pressure of being the poster boy for Canadian hockey, while Connor Storrie as Ilya delivers a sharp-edged charisma that makes him both infuriating and magnetic. Their dynamic is instantly believable, and the show wisely contrasts their family lives: Shane’s parents beam with pride at his signing party, while Ilya’s father dismisses him as lazy. This juxtaposition adds depth, showing us that rivalry isn’t just about the ice, but about identity, validation, and the weight of expectation.

Stylistically, the episode balances steamy undertones with heartfelt sincerity. It’s witty, it’s cheeky, and it knows exactly what it’s doing in terms of fan service. The adaptation of Rachel Reid’s novel feels faithful in spirit, capturing the longing and tension that made the book a cult favourite. At the same time, the show manages to carve out its own identity, leaning into the visual medium with clever pacing and a keen eye for atmosphere.

If there’s a slight drawback, it’s that the episode occasionally feels rushed in its time jumps. We move from rookie introductions to professional signings in a blink, which risks losing some of the nuance of their early relationship. A touch more breathing room might have allowed the rivalry to simmer more gradually. Still, the episode compensates with sharp dialogue and a clear promise of deeper exploration in future instalments.

Overall, episode one succeeds in laying down the foundations of a queer romance that is unapologetically bold, emotionally charged, and refreshingly free of clichés. It’s not perfect, but it’s confident, stylish, and deeply engaging. That’s why it earns a solid 4.5 stars: a near-flawless start that leaves you eager for more.

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Role Model by Rachel Reid Review: A Tender, Funny, and Thoughtful Queer Hockey Romance

Role Model by Rachel Reid is one of those books that manages to be both charmingly light-hearted and quietly thoughtful, which is why I’d give it a solid 4 out of 5 stars. It’s a queer hockey romance that balances the fun of sports banter with the emotional weight of navigating identity, reputation, and trust. The story follows Troy, a professional hockey player on a career downturn, and Harris, a social media manager who is helping him to rebuild his public image. What unfolds is a romance that feels both tender and grounded, with plenty of humour and chemistry to keep the pages turning.

The strongest element here is the dynamic between Troy and Harris. Troy is written with a mix of vulnerability and bravado, which makes him feel layered rather than a flat archetype of the closeted athlete. Harris, meanwhile, is witty, principled, and refreshingly ordinary compared to the usual love interests in sports romances. Their relationship develops in a way that feels believable, with awkwardness, missteps, and genuine growth. The banter between them is sharp and funny, and the slow build of trust is handled with care. It’s not just about lust or attraction, but about learning to be honest with oneself and with another person, which gives the romance a satisfying depth.

The book also engages with the realities of homophobia in professional sports without ever becoming preachy. Troy’s struggle with public perception, his fear of being tokenised, and the pressure to be a “role model” are all explored in a way that feels authentic. At the same time, the novel doesn’t lose sight of its romantic core, so the heavier themes never overwhelm the story. It’s a clever balance, and Reid deserves credit for weaving social commentary into a narrative that still feels warm and hopeful.

That said, there are moments where the pacing drags. Some of the middle chapters lean heavily on Troy’s internal monologue, which occasionally feels repetitive. The conflict resolution towards the end also comes together a little too neatly, with certain obstacles being brushed aside rather quickly. While this doesn’t ruin the book, it does make the climax feel slightly less impactful than it could have been. I also think Harris, for all his charm, could have been given more backstory beyond his job and his values, as he sometimes risks being overshadowed by Troy’s arc.

Overall, Role Model is a thoroughly enjoyable read that delivers on both romance and substance. It’s funny, heartfelt, and unafraid to tackle the complexities of being openly queer in a hyper-masculine environment. The characters feel real, the chemistry is undeniable, and the writing has that easy readability that makes you want to binge it in a weekend. It’s not flawless, but it’s the kind of book that leaves you smiling and thinking at the same time, which is why I’d happily recommend it. Four stars feels right: strong, memorable, and worth your time, even if it doesn’t quite hit perfection.

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Common Goal by Rachel Reid Review: A Tender Age-Gap Romance That Falls Just Short of Greatness

Common Goal is one of those books that feels both comforting and slightly frustrating at the same time, which is why I’ve landed on a 3.75 out of 5 stars. It’s the fourth instalment in Rachel Reid’s Game Changers series, and it follows Eric, a fourty-one-year-old veteran hockey player, and Kyle, a twenty-five-year-old bartender who’s still figuring himself out. The age gap is front and centre, and Reid does a good job of exploring the different stages of life they’re in without making it feel exploitative or unbalanced. Eric’s maturity and Kyle’s uncertainty create a dynamic that feels tender and believable, though occasionally the narrative leans a bit too heavily on Eric’s role as mentor rather than equal partner, which can make the romance feel uneven.

The chemistry between them is undeniable, and Reid’s knack for writing sex scenes that are both hot and emotionally resonant is on full display here. There’s a warmth to their relationship that makes you root for them, and the way Kyle grows in confidence is genuinely satisfying. At the same time, the pacing can feel a little slow, particularly in the middle section, where the story seems to circle around the same conversations about identity and future plans. It’s not that these discussions aren’t important, but they sometimes stall the momentum of the romance, leaving you wishing for a bit more narrative drive.

One of the strengths of the book is how it situates the romance within the broader world of hockey without overwhelming the story with technical detail. Eric’s career and looming retirement add stakes that feel grounded, and Kyle’s outsider perspective keeps the narrative accessible even if you’re not a sports fan. That said, compared to some of the other books in the series, Common Goal doesn’t quite hit the same emotional highs. It’s quieter, more introspective, and while that has its charm, it also means it lacks the punch that makes Heated Rivalry or Tough Guy so memorable.

The writing itself is clean and engaging, with Reid’s usual balance of humour and sincerity. There are moments of genuine sweetness that make you smile, and the dialogue feels natural, particularly in the way Eric and Kyle navigate their differences. Still, I found myself wishing for a bit more conflict or tension to push the story forward. The resolution is satisfying, but it arrives without much in the way of obstacles, which makes the ending feel slightly too easy.

Overall, Common Goal is a solid addition to the series, offering a thoughtful exploration of age, identity, and love. It’s not the strongest of Reid’s works, but it’s far from weak. The romance is heartfelt, the characters are likeable, and the themes are handled with care. It just doesn’t quite soar in the way you want it to, which is why 3.75 feels fair. It’s the kind of book you’ll enjoy reading, but perhaps not the one you’ll be pressing into everyone’s hands as a must-read.

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Tough Guy by Rachel Reid review: Vulnerability on Ice with a Solid but Uneven Romance

Tough Guy by Rachel Reid is one of those books that sits in an interesting middle ground. It’s part of her Game Changers series, which is all about queer hockey romances, and while it has the same warmth and inclusivity that makes her writing so appealing, it doesn’t quite reach the heights of some of her other instalments. I’d give it 3.75 out of 5 stars, which feels fair because it’s enjoyable and heartfelt, but not without its flaws.

The story follows Ryan Price, a professional hockey player who’s built like a tank but struggles with anxiety, self-esteem, and the pressure of living up to his reputation as a “tough guy.” His romance with Fabian, a musician he reconnects with from his past, is tender and sweet, and there’s a lot of emotional honesty in the way Reid writes their relationship. Ryan’s vulnerability is refreshing, especially in a genre that often leans heavily on alpha-male tropes, and Fabian’s patience and kindness make him a genuinely likeable love interest. The book shines when it explores Ryan’s inner world, showing how difficult it is to reconcile public perception with private reality.

That said, the pacing can feel uneven. The romance develops quickly, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it sometimes skips over the tension and build-up that makes a slow-burn romance so satisfying. There are moments where the plot feels a little thin, as if the book is more interested in Ryan’s personal growth than in the actual relationship arc. While that character focus is admirable, it does mean the story occasionally lacks momentum.

Another point worth mentioning is that the hockey backdrop isn’t as vividly drawn here as in Reid’s other books. In Heated Rivalry, for example, the sport feels integral to the drama and the romance, whereas in Tough Guy it’s more of a setting than a driving force. For readers who love the sports element, this might feel like a missed opportunity.

On the positive side, the representation of anxiety and mental health is handled with care. Ryan’s struggles are never trivialised, and the book makes a strong case for vulnerability being a form of strength. It’s also refreshing to see a romance where the conflict isn’t rooted in toxic behaviour or unnecessary drama, but in the very real challenges of self-acceptance.

Overall, Tough Guy is a solid addition to the series, but it doesn’t quite have the spark or intensity of Reid’s best work. It’s heartfelt, inclusive, and worth reading, especially if you’re interested in romances that centre on vulnerability and kindness. At 3.75 stars, it’s good, but not great, and it’s the kind of book you’ll enjoy while reading but might not find yourself rushing to revisit.

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Halloween with Ilya: A Heated Rivalry Short Story by Rachel Reid Review: A Charming Halloween Treat with Ilya’s Wit and Heart

Halloween with Ilya: A Heated Rivalry Short Story is one of those delightful little extras that feels like slipping back into a world you already know and love, but with the added sparkle of seasonal mischief. It is short, snappy, and very much written for fans who already have a soft spot for Ilya Rozanov, which makes it feel like a treat rather than a standalone piece. The story leans into the playful chaos of Halloween, giving Ilya room to be both his sharp, sarcastic self and surprisingly tender when the mask slips.

The pacing is brisk, which works well for a holiday vignette, but it does mean that some of the emotional beats don’t have the same depth as Rachel Reid’s full-length novels. You get the banter, the rivalry, the flirtation, and the humour, but not the slow-burn layering that makes her longer works so addictive. That said, the writing is as polished as ever, with Reid’s knack for dialogue shining through. Ilya’s voice is perfectly captured, equal parts biting wit and vulnerable charm, and the Halloween setting adds a playful backdrop that feels fresh without being gimmicky.

What stands out most is the balance between comedy and intimacy. There are moments that genuinely made me laugh, particularly in the way Ilya navigates the absurdity of costumes and parties, but there are also flashes of sincerity that remind you why he is such a compelling character. It’s not just fluff, even though it could easily have been. Reid manages to sneak in a bit of emotional resonance, which elevates the story beyond a throwaway seasonal extra.

On the flip side, the brevity does limit its impact. If you’re hoping for a fully fleshed-out arc or a deep dive into the rivalry, you might feel slightly underwhelmed. It’s more of a snapshot than a full exploration, and while that’s fine for what it is, it does leave you wanting more. The ending, too, feels a touch abrupt, as though the story bows out just when it’s hitting its stride.

Overall, it’s a charming addition to the Heated Rivalry universe, perfect for fans who want a quick hit of Ilya’s chaotic energy wrapped in Halloween trappings. It doesn’t quite reach the emotional highs of Reid’s longer works, but it delivers exactly what it promises: fun, wit, and a dash of heart. I’d score it 4.25 out of 5 stars, because while it’s not essential reading, it’s a thoroughly enjoyable bonus that captures the spirit of the character and the season beautifully.

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My Dinner with Hayden: A Heated Rivalry Short Story by Rachel Reid Review: Dinner, Dialogue, and Desire: A Tense but Tender Short

My Dinner with Hayden: A Heated Rivalry Short Story is one of those pieces that feels deceptively simple on the surface but actually packs a lot of nuance into its short length. It’s essentially a character study wrapped in the guise of a dinner date, and Rachel Reid uses the confined setting to explore tension, vulnerability, and the messy overlap between rivalry and attraction. The dialogue is sharp, witty, and often laugh‑out‑loud funny, but what really elevates it is the way the banter gradually reveals layers of insecurity and longing beneath the bravado. You can tell Reid relishes writing these characters sparring with each other, and the chemistry is undeniable.

The pacing is brisk, which works well for a short story, though at times it feels like the emotional beats could have been given just a little more breathing room. There’s a sense that the dinner is both too long and too short: too long in the sense that the back‑and‑forth occasionally risks becoming repetitive, too short in that the resolution arrives quickly and leaves you wanting more depth. That said, the compactness is part of the charm. It’s like being dropped into the middle of a heated conversation and then whisked away before things get too tidy, which feels true to life.

Stylistically, Reid balances humour with sincerity in a way that makes the story accessible even if you haven’t read the full Heated Rivalry novel. Fans of the series will appreciate the extra insight into Ilya and Shane’s dynamic, but newcomers won’t feel lost. The writing is clean and engaging, with just enough descriptive detail to ground the scene without bogging it down. It’s very much dialogue‑driven, which means the success of the story hinges on whether you enjoy listening to two people verbally spar for twenty‑odd pages. Personally, I found it compelling, though I can imagine some readers wishing for more action or variety.

Where the story shines brightest is in its emotional honesty. Beneath the teasing and the digs, there’s a palpable sense of care, and Reid captures that contradiction beautifully. It’s not just about rivalry, it’s about intimacy expressed through competition, which is a tricky balance to strike. The ending manages to be both satisfying and open‑ended, leaving space for readers to imagine what happens next.

Overall, I’d score it 4.25 out of 5 stars. It’s a delightful addition to the Heated Rivalry universe, full of sharp dialogue and emotional undercurrents, but it doesn’t quite reach the heights of Reid’s longer works simply because the format limits how much ground she can cover. Still, as a short, punchy exploration of two characters who thrive on tension, it’s well worth the read.

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Heated Rivalry by Rachel Reid Review: Electric Chemistry, Tender Depths, Slightly Uneven Pace

Heated Rivalry by Rachel Reid is one of those romance novels that manages to be both wildly entertaining and surprisingly tender, and I think that’s why it has stuck with so many readers. On the surface, it’s a sports romance about two professional ice hockey players, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, who are fierce rivals on the ice but secretly entangled in a passionate, long-running affair off it. What makes it stand out is the way Reid balances the adrenaline of competition with the vulnerability of intimacy, creating a story that feels bigger than its genre trappings.

The chemistry between Shane and Ilya is electric. Their banter is sharp, often laugh-out-loud funny, and the tension between them is palpable from the very first chapter. Reid writes their dynamic with such precision that you can feel the weight of years of rivalry, resentment, and attraction simmering beneath every interaction. It’s not just about lust, though. The novel digs into themes of identity, secrecy, and the cost of living a double life, especially in the hyper-masculine world of professional sport. That emotional depth is what elevates the book beyond a straightforward enemies-to-lovers trope.

That said, the pacing occasionally falters. Because the relationship spans years, the narrative sometimes feels repetitive, circling back to the same beats of clandestine meetings and unresolved tension. While this structure does emphasise the longevity and complexity of their bond, it can also make the middle section drag slightly. I also think the novel could have explored the external pressures of homophobia in sport more directly. It’s hinted at, but the focus remains tightly on the romance, which is both a strength and a limitation.

Reid’s writing style is accessible and engaging, with dialogue that feels natural and scenes that are vividly drawn. The sex scenes are unapologetically steamy but never gratuitous, always serving to deepen the emotional connection between the characters. There’s also a refreshing lack of melodrama in the resolution. Instead of leaning into contrived conflict, Reid allows Shane and Ilya’s relationship to evolve in a way that feels earned and believable.

Overall, I’d give Heated Rivalry 4.25 out of 5 stars. It’s a compelling, character-driven romance that delivers both heart and heat, with protagonists who feel fully realised and a relationship that is messy, complicated, and deeply human. The slight pacing issues and limited exploration of broader social context keep it from being a perfect score, but it remains one of the most memorable sports romances I’ve read. It’s the kind of book that makes you root for the characters not just to get together, but to find a way to live authentically, and that’s a rare achievement in the genre.  

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Merry Christmas, Scott & Kip by Rachel Reid Review: cosy vibes, thin plot, festive fluff

Right, so Merry Christmas, Scott & Kip by Rachel Reid is one of those festive novellas that feels like slipping into a pair of cosy pyjamas you’ve had for years: familiar, comforting, but perhaps a little thin in places. I’d give it 3.75 out of 5 stars, and here’s why.

The book is essentially a holiday snapshot of Scott and Kip, characters readers already know from Reid’s Game Changers series. It isn’t trying to reinvent the wheel; it’s more like a stocking filler, a bonus chapter for fans who’ve already invested in their relationship. And in that sense, it absolutely delivers. The warmth between them is palpable, the banter is charming, and Reid has a knack for writing intimacy that feels both tender and cheeky. You can tell she enjoys giving her characters space to breathe in domestic moments, and that’s what makes this novella feel like a gift to her readers.

Here’s the rub: as much as I enjoyed the cosy vibes, the plot is wafer-thin. It’s essentially “Scott and Kip do Christmas”, which is fine if you’re already attached to them, but if you’re coming in fresh, you’ll probably wonder what all the fuss is about. There’s very little tension, no real conflict, and while that makes it soothing, it also means it lacks the narrative drive that makes Reid’s longer works so addictive. It’s like watching a Christmas advert stretched to novella length: heart-warming, yes, but not particularly memorable.

Stylistically, Reid’s writing is as polished as ever. She balances humour with sincerity, and she knows how to write dialogue that feels natural without tipping into saccharine territory. That said, the pacing is uneven. Some scenes linger too long on domestic minutiae, while others skim over potentially interesting emotional beats. It’s the literary equivalent of a mince pie that’s tasty but missing that extra kick of brandy: enjoyable, but you’re left wanting a bit more depth.

In terms of audience, this is clearly for fans who already adore Scott and Kip. If you’ve followed their journey, this novella is like catching up with old friends at Christmas. If you haven’t, it’s more like being invited to someone else’s family dinner: pleasant enough, but you won’t feel the same emotional resonance.

So, 3.75 stars feels fair. It’s not a must-read masterpiece, but it’s a lovely seasonal treat. Think of it as the literary equivalent of a Christmas jumper: you wouldn’t wear it year-round, but when December comes around, it’s exactly what you want. Reid knows her audience, and she delivers precisely what they’re after, even if it isn’t quite substantial enough to stand on its own.

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Game Changer by Rachel Reid Review: Cosy, Sweet, Predictable, and Proudly Queer

Game Changer by Rachel Reid is one of those books that feels like slipping into a warm jumper: cosy, familiar, and a little bit comforting, even if you know it’s not going to change your life. It’s a queer hockey romance, and the premise is delightfully straightforward. Scott, a closeted professional hockey player, falls for Kip, a witty bartender who is unapologetically himself. The novel leans into tropes with shameless joy, and that’s part of its charm. You can tell Reid loves the genre, and she writes with genuine affection for her characters.

The strength of the book lies in its heart. Scott and Kip’s relationship is tender, funny, and refreshingly low on angst. There’s a sweetness to the way their romance unfolds, and it’s hard not to root for them. Reid also explores the tension between public image and private identity, particularly in the hyper-masculine world of professional sport. It’s not heavy-handed, but it adds a layer of depth that makes the story feel more than just fluff.

That said, the writing style is very much “romance comfort read” rather than “literary masterpiece.” The prose is serviceable, but it doesn’t sparkle. Dialogue occasionally veers into the slightly cheesy, and the pacing can feel uneven. Some scenes linger too long on domestic detail, while others rush past moments that could have been more emotionally impactful. The plot is also fairly predictable. If you’ve read even a handful of queer romances, you’ll see the beats coming from a mile off.

Where Reid shines is in her characterisation. Kip, in particular, is a standout: funny, sharp, and deeply likeable. Scott, meanwhile, is endearing in his awkwardness, though at times he feels a little underdeveloped compared to Kip. Their chemistry is undeniable, but I found myself wishing for more complexity in Scott’s internal journey. The conflict resolution is almost too neat, which makes the ending satisfying but not especially memorable.

Verdict: Game Changer is like a packet of custard creams. You know exactly what you’re getting, it’s enjoyable, and it hits the spot, but it’s not going to blow your mind. I’d give it 3.75 out of 5 stars. It’s a solid, heart-warming romance with lovely representation and plenty of charm, but it doesn’t quite reach the heights of the genre’s best. Perfect if you’re after something light, queer, and comforting, but not necessarily the book you’ll be pressing into everyone’s hands as a must-read.

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The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes Review: Ambition, Snakes, and the Birth of a Monster

Suzanne Collins’ The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes is one of those books that makes you sit back afterwards and think, “Well, that was a lot darker than I expected.” It’s a prequel to The Hunger Games, but instead of giving us a nostalgic trip through familiar territory, it drags us into the murky beginnings of Panem and the twisted psychology of a young Coriolanus Snow. And honestly, it’s fascinating. I’d give it 4 out of 5 stars, because while it’s ambitious and layered, it doesn’t quite hit the same emotional highs as the original trilogy.

What Collins does brilliantly here is world-building. We’re dropped into a Capitol that’s still licking its wounds from the war, and you can feel the fragility of its society. The Hunger Games themselves are clunky, underdeveloped, and frankly barbaric in their early form, which makes you realise just how much of a grotesque spectacle they later become under Snow’s leadership. It’s clever, because you’re watching the Games evolve from a crude punishment into the polished dystopian nightmare we know, and you can see Snow’s fingerprints all over that transformation. It’s like watching someone rehearse cruelty until they perfect it.

The character work is equally strong. Coriolanus is not written to be likeable, and that’s the point. Collins forces you to sit in his head, to see the entitlement, the desperation, the flashes of charm that mask a ruthless ambition. He’s manipulative, calculating, and yet occasionally vulnerable, which makes him compelling even when you’re repulsed by him. Lucy Gray Baird, the District 12 tribute, is the perfect foil: vibrant, enigmatic, and a reminder that artistry and humanity can exist even in the bleakest circumstances. Their relationship is tense, layered with mistrust and attraction, and it’s never allowed to settle into something comfortable. That ambiguity is one of the book’s strengths.

Where the novel falters slightly is pacing. The first half, set during the Games, is gripping and tense, but the second half shifts into a slower, more introspective narrative that doesn’t always sustain the same momentum. It’s not that the latter sections are bad, as they’re essential for showing Snow’s descent, but they do feel uneven compared to the taut energy of the Games themselves. It’s as if Collins wanted to write two different books: one about the mechanics of the Hunger Games, and one about the psychology of power. Both are interesting, but together they sometimes clash.

Stylistically, Collins’ prose is sharp and efficient, but occasionally a bit heavy-handed with the symbolism. The recurring motifs of songbirds and snakes are clever, yes, but they’re hammered home so often that you start to feel like you’re being nudged in the ribs. Still, the thematic exploration of survival, morality, and the corrupting nature of power is classic Collins, and it’s handled with enough nuance to keep you thinking long after you’ve closed the book.

So, why 4 stars instead of 5? Because while it’s a bold and intelligent addition to The Hunger Games universe, it doesn’t quite reach the emotional gut-punch of Katniss’ story. It’s colder, more cerebral, and deliberately alienating at times. That’s not a flaw in itself, as it’s part of the design, but it does mean the book is more admired than loved. It’s the kind of novel you respect for its craft, even if you don’t necessarily want to reread it for comfort.

In short, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes is a fascinating prequel that deepens the mythology of Panem and offers a chilling portrait of how monsters are made. It’s not perfect, but it’s ambitious, thought-provoking, and a worthy companion to the original trilogy. Four stars, because it’s clever, unsettling, and memorable, but not quite transcendent.

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Druck Season 6 Review: Quietly Radical, Deeply Personal, and Worth Every Minute

Druck Season 6 earns a solid 4 out of 5 stars. It’s not flawless, but it’s one of the most introspective, emotionally honest seasons of teen television I’ve seen and that’s saying something.

This is Fatou’s season. A character who’s hovered in the background for a while finally gets her turn in the spotlight, and the show doesn’t give her a glossy, coming-of-age arc. Instead, it hands her something messier, slower, and far more internal. And honestly? That choice is what makes it special.

Fatou’s storyline explores neurodivergence, specifically dyscalculia and executive dysfunction with a level of care that’s quietly revolutionary. There’s no dramatic diagnosis scene, no “aha” moment. Just the everyday reality of struggling to keep up, forgetting things, missing deadlines, and feeling like you’re falling behind while everyone else seems to be thriving. It’s raw, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s handled with empathy. Druck doesn’t use trauma for drama it sits with it, listens to it, and lets it breathe.

Her romance with Kieu My is another highlight. It’s tender, complicated, and refreshingly unpolished. There are miscommunications, emotional labour, and moments that feel like they were pulled straight from real life. Kieu My’s guardedness and Fatou’s vulnerability clash in ways that are frustrating and beautiful. Their dynamic is a masterclass in subtle storytelling, and the chemistry between the actors is undeniable.

Visually, the season continues Druck’s tradition of understated brilliance. The cinematography is intimate without being invasive, and the music choices are spot-on. There’s a moment where Fatou dances alone in her room, headphones in, and it hits harder than any monologue ever could. It’s that kind of visual storytelling that makes Druck feel like it’s operating on a different frequency, one that’s tuned to emotion rather than spectacle.

Now, it’s not perfect. The pacing dips in the middle, episodes 4 to 6 feel like they’re circling the same emotional terrain without much movement. And while that mirrors Fatou’s own stagnation, it can be a bit of a slog. Some side characters, like Zoe, don’t get the depth they deserve, and the resolution wraps things up a little too neatly for a season that’s been so emotionally raw.

But still, four stars. Because Druck Season 6 isn’t trying to be flashy. It’s trying to be real. And in a landscape full of teen dramas that chase drama for drama’s sake, this season dares to be quiet, complicated, and deeply human.

If I had to sum it up: it’s like reading a Sally Rooney novel while your flatmate’s having a breakdown in the next room. You’re caught between introspection and chaos, and somehow, it works.

So yes, Druck Season 6? It matters. And that’s worth celebrating.

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Druck Season 5 Review: Messy, Magnetic, and Almost Too Real

Druck Season 5 earns a well-deserved 4.75 out of 5 stars. It’s not perfect but it’s so close, it hurts a little.

Imagine if Skins and Normal People had a baby, raised it in Berlin, and handed it a camera to document trauma, sisterhood, and the quiet chaos of growing up. That’s Druck Season 5. It’s the first fully original season not based on Skam, and you can feel the writers stretching their wings. They give us Nora Machwitz, a protagonist who’s vulnerable, guarded, and magnetic in a way that sneaks up on you.

Nora’s arc is slow-burn brilliance. She’s not immediately likeable, and that’s the point. The show doesn’t hand us her trauma on a plate, instead it lets us sit with her silences, her missteps, her slow unraveling. Her relationship with Josh is tentative and tender, full of moments that make you want to yell “just talk to each other!” at the screen. It’s not romanticised. It’s not tragic. It’s just real.

Mental health is handled with quiet precision. Nora’s dissociation and emotional numbness aren’t dramatised, they’re lived. We get blank stares at parties, zoning out mid-conversation, and those tiny moments where everything feels just a bit off. The show trusts us to notice. To care. To connect the dots. And that trust? That’s rare.

Visually, Druck continues to be one of the most coherent teen dramas out there. The cinematography is intimate but never invasive. The music, especially in episodes like “Ich fühle nichts” is devastating in the best way. It’s giving Euphoria vibes, but stripped of glitter and spectacle. Think muted tones, lingering shots, and playlists that feel like someone actually made them for a friend going through it.

Now, why not a full five stars? Pacing. Around episodes 4 to 6, things get a bit meandering. There’s a subplot involving Abi-Merch and a camping trip that feels like it’s padding the runtime. And some side characters like Zoe don’t get the depth they deserve. Compared to Nora’s arc, they feel more like outlines than full portraits.

But honestly? That 0.25 deduction is nitpicking. Druck Season 5 is what happens when a show listens, learns, and decides to tell stories that matter. It’s messy. It’s radical. It’s emotionally intelligent in a way that makes you feel seen. If you love character-driven narratives and teen drama that respects its audience, this season is for you.

It’s the kind of show that lingers. Like the last page of a book you didn’t want to finish. Like a conversation you wish you’d had. So yes Druck Season 5? I’m emotionally compromised. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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Druck Season 4 Review: Soft, Messy, and Exactly What Growing Up Feels Like

Druck Season 4 gets a solid 4 out of 5 stars. It’s not flawless, but it’s the kind of season that understands the quiet chaos of growing up and doesn’t try to fix it.

This one’s set right after the Abi (Germany’s A-level equivalent), and it’s basically a love letter to that weird, floaty time when you’re technically an adult but emotionally still clinging to the group chat. If Skam is the blueprint, Druck is the Berlin remix with more lakeside lounging, existential dread, and the kind of conversations that start with “so what now?” and end in silence.

The season loosely centres on Amira, but it’s more ensemble than character study. Everyone’s scattering: Mia’s off to Madrid, Alex is in London, Matteo and David are road-tripping, and Amira’s weighing up a gap year in Australia. It’s giving “we’re all trying to find ourselves but also low-key avoiding each other’s Instagram stories.” Thematically, it’s rich: identity, future anxiety, friendship drift, and the quiet panic of not knowing what comes next. Druck doesn’t hand you answers, it just hands you moments and says, “sit with this.”

Stylistically, it’s still got that transmedia magic with WhatsApp threads, Instagram posts, real-time clips that make you feel like you’re part of the group. The cinematography leans into natural light and handheld intimacy, especially in the lakeside scenes and late-night chats. It’s soft, quiet, and kind. Like the show knows you’re tired and just wants to offer you a moment of stillness.

Now, why not five stars? Pacing. The middle of the season meanders. There’s emotional weight, but not always enough narrative drive. It’s like watching a group of people think about texting each other but never quite doing it. And while Amira’s arc is compelling as tries balancing faith, friendship, and future, it doesn’t get the depth it deserves. She’s there, but not always centred.

Still, the emotional payoffs hit. There’s a reunion scene that’s awkward, tender, and so painfully real you’ll want to text your sixth-form mates just to say “remember us?” It’s the kind of moment that makes you feel seen.

If Season 4 were a book, it’d be Sally Rooney meets Nina LaCour: quietly devastating, occasionally frustrating, but ultimately rewarding. It’s not trying to be flashy. It’s trying to be honest. And in a world of teen dramas that shout, Druck whispers. Somehow, that’s louder.

So yeah, 4 stars. Watch it with a cup of tea and a bit of nostalgia for the version of yourself who didn’t know what came next.