Ilya Rozanov and the Definition(s) of Being Good (Heated Rivalry meta, a character study)--some spoilers herein
So--you're really, really good at hockey. You're not obsessed with it the way your friend Svetlana is, and it's not a part of your family life the way it is for Sasha, but neither of those things matter, because you're the best at it, where you're from, and that's enough to be the number 1 draft pick in the NHL, enough to leave your screwed-up life in Russia behind for this city called Boston, where everyone drinks coffee from Dunkins and the traffic is emotionally unstable.
And you keep getting better and better at hockey, you're already in the public eye but now you've got accolades and you're breaking records, and it's not just because you're an exceptional player on a top team against other top teams. There's also this boy--he's become a man now, you both have, but the first time you saw him and his dark freckles, had that awkward, polite conversation with him--he was a boy then, and so were you. But you already knew, staring at those beautiful freckles, he's really, really good at hockey. And now, now you know him better and can see that he's enough of a challenge that you strive to be better, to push yourself to match and surpass him. It's mutually beneficial, in a way.
And this man--everyone knows he's a good guy. Passionate and determined but still fair and decent on the ice, responsible and respectable in his daily life. An actual role model, you're not supposed to smoke over here, it all drives you nuts and makes you want to take him apart and find that sweetness on the inside, steal some for yourself or maybe--maybe make a home for yourself in there.
"Good" isn't how people describe you as a person--asshole, goon, go home are probably the nicest words you hear, on or off the ice, and they're thrown at you so often they almost sound like terms of endearment after a while. You don't mind, because Americans trying to be intimidating are honestly kind of funny, and anyway you've been pissing off the people around you for as long as you can remember. The angriest Montreal hockey player is a kitten compared to your father.
But the first time you fired a teasing comment at him, and saw the way it made the skin under those dark freckles blush red with flustered anger, you--you felt something good take up residence in your chest. And the degree to which you want him--it scares you, this pipe dream of desire, the way he looks back at you like you are something special, like he sees something good in you.
But when he finds someone--you're honest enough to admit it, she's fantastic and they look so good together--and you're not the bigger person about it, even after she's become "just" a friend. Friends are great. Anyway, you weren't bothered, really. He's a hookup, a convenience.
But then your shitty father dies, and your shitty brother and shitty mother-in-law (ha. haha.) make it so clear that if it weren't for you being good at making money, they'd prefer you be the one dead instead. They look at you and see something they hate. There's nothing left for you at home (there hasn't been for years).
But then there's this man, he's always there, even when he isn't. He keeps getting under your skin, he is the first person to care this much in years. But that's bad, because the last time you had such a caring person in your life, she left you, left you behind, and you've always wondered whether you weren't good enough for--no matter. Better, in any case, to be the one to step back, because he is getting much too close now. This has gotten dangerously out of hand.
But just as you decide to cut out the one good thing in your life, the universe tries to do it for you. He crumbles like tissue paper, just feet away from you on the ice, and it's almost funny, how you experience this man getting hit during a game the same way you experience him in general--how by the time you could see all of this coming, you were helpless to stop it. Now you're thinking maybe they should examine you too, because your heart doesn't beat properly again until the next day, when you're with him again, touching his face and hearing his voice.
He asks you to come to the cabin and you say yes, because it lights him up and you can't bear to hurt him more than he already is. The two of you have spent over a decade like this, shutting each other out in turn, chasing each other in turn, but now you're both waving the white flag. You're on the same page. You want to be close to this man, you want to be someone who's good for him.
Even once he's better, you don't forget that promise, and then that one old dude player kisses that random guy at the Cup and suddenly you think there's a chance for you, a chance to keep him, because you can admit at least to yourself that you'd give up the game for him, move anywhere, give him everything. You choose him, and you can finally see a life and a future where you are with him for good.
