Heated Rivalry became a hit sensation gradually over the past five weeks. What began as a show (based on a series of books by Rachel Reid), presumably targeted towards LGBTQ+ audiences and adult cis-women, who make up a large portion of the consumers of gay romance, quickly became a hit sensation, surpassing the show’s expectations. The show was initially slated to be viewed solely on the Canadian streaming service Crave, but was picked up by HBO, expanding its reach exponentially. HBO CEO, Casey Bloys, claimed, “I thought it would be kind of a very specific, maybe gay-only show, but it really is a broader audience than that.” While the show was expected to garner “some noise” due to its “racy sex scenes,” its character development, cinematography, acting, and hockey milieu quickly made the show a success. IMDb rated episode 5 of Heated Rivalry 10/10. This perfect score has only been awarded to a handful of episodes in television history, including Breaking Bad’s critically acclaimed Ozymandias. This perfect score further spurred the show’s success by drawing curious viewers to see what made it so exceptional. The announcement of Season 2 arrived before the last episode of Season 1 had even aired on Boxing Day.

If you haven’t watched the show yet, fair warning: there are some spoilers ahead.

As a queer hockey fan and hockey scholar, I was curious from the beginning about how Heated Rivalry would unfold. I watched as the show captivated the internet, along with many of my friends and family (who I had not expected to watch a gay hockey show), who became inherently invested in Shane, Ilya, Scott and Kip. The internet has exploded with the idea of potential: that Heated Rivalry might actually affect the NHL and hockey culture more generally, which we know is homophobic (as well as white, masculine, etc.) to its core (see Robinson, 1998; Szto, 2020; Westhead, 2025). However, those who have lived the experience of Heated Rivalry, such as Brock McGillis, the first professional hockey player to come out as gay, were quick to point out that it’s not the men ingrained in NHL hockey culture (e.g., the coaches, athletes, fans) who are watching the show. However, with the show reaching such a broad audience, one can imagine it may have made its way into some of these men’s homes over the holidays through wives, girlfriends, family and friends who look favourably on the show. The trailer for Heated Rivalry did make its way onto the Jumbotron at the Bell Centre when the Montreal Canadians showed it during their Pride Night. There is evidence that the show is also reaching “straight hockey bros” as the podcast Empty Netters, hosted by two former hockey players, has been reviewing episodes of the show. So, it’s certainly possible that these conversations are reaching the men who can help change hockey’s heteronormative and homophobic culture, but it’s hard to say what conversations the show will bring behind the closed doors of the locker room and board meetings. My argument here is that Heated Rivalry has the potential to be more impactful as a cultural intervention than it is being given credit for, but it would take a few brave souls, like the fictional Scott Hunter, to spark the revolution hockey so desperately needs.

Rather than asking whether Heated Rivalry is “good” or “successful,” I am interested in what the show does within and for hockey culture and, just as importantly, what it does not do. As a cultural text situated within a sport long defined by heteronormativity, whiteness, and hypermasculinity, Heated Rivalry operates simultaneously as a site of possibility and limitation. In what follows, I consider three ways the show intervenes in hockey culture for queer fans, alongside the structural boundaries it ultimately leaves intact.

(1) What Heated Rivalry Does for Hockey Fans

Heated Rivalry functions as an affective intervention for queer hockey fans by placing queer desire, intimacy, and joy inside hockey. While we see this ardently in women’s hockey, with the PWHL serving as an arena for LGBTQ+ celebration, especially for queer women, it is nonexistent in male hockey spaces. There has never been an out gay man in the NHL. Hockey has traditionally been juxtaposed with “queerness,” as if they are two separate, incompatible identities. Heated Rivalry allows queer individuals to enjoy hockey and feel represented in the hockey arena (albeit secretly), in ways that have never been showcased before. There is pleasure in seeing queerness in male hockey spaces, in any capacity, and in seeing these men navigate the complexity of being queer in the hockey world. Heated Rivalry also does a wonderful job in showing emotional vulnerability between men in ways that go against the masculine, tough-it-out culture of hockey. We see Shane and Ilya share secrets, fall in love, and rely on each other in tough times, and we see the emotional struggle and triumph that Scott Hunter experiences as he invites his boyfriend, Kip, down from the stands. This representation of gay hockey players and emotional vulnerability matters because queer fans have been consistently denied this in male hockey spaces. Yet the affective power of Heated Rivalry is also shaped by its limits. While the show makes space for queer intimacy and emotional vulnerability, it does so without meaningfully confronting the institutional structures that have historically rendered men’s hockey hostile to queerness.

(2) Queerness That Doesn’t Trouble the Institution

While Heated Rivalry queers hockey at the level of intimacy and vulnerability, it essentially leaves hockey’s institutional power structures intact. The show imagines acceptance without resistance. We only get a small snapshot into the aftermath of Scott Hunter coming out publicly as gay, but it signals acceptance of his sexual identity from the hockey community writ large. He mentions messages from fans thanking him for coming out, and we witness him receive the season MVP award at the annual “MHL” (a play on the NHL) Awards. Homophobia becomes muted in Scott’s narrative, as if homophobia only exists in the players’ heads and is not a reality of the locker room; and hockey’s key actors remain conspicuously unexamined. While we’d all like to imagine a world where the hockey community would widely accept the first out gay man in the NHL, we all know that hockey culture, as it currently stands, would likely not allow for this. We need only to look at the NHL’s banning of pride tape and jerseys or fans’ responses to NHL teams’ pride posts to know that, if an NHL player came out as gay, they would not be unequivocally accepted, in or outside the arena. Even after Scott comes out publicly, Shane and Ilya agree to keep their relationship hidden until retirement, reinforcing the notion that queerness in men’s hockey remains a private, individualized burden rather than a collective or institutional concern. Although this decision is partially shaped by Ilya’s Russian citizenship and lack of an alternative passport, it nonetheless reflects a broader cultural logic in which visibility is framed as risky and ultimately optional. In this way, Heated Rivalry offers a vision of inclusion that is emotionally impactful but structurally constrained. It allows queerness to exist in hockey so long as it does not meaningfully disrupt the institutions that govern the sport.

(3) Who the Story is For, and Who it Leaves Out

Heated Rivalry expands who hockey stories can include, but it remains bounded by whiteness, cisnormativity, and masculinity. The representation that Heated Rivalry affords is selective to cis, white men. The one player we do see come out is a veteran white player who has just won the Cup. These are very specific conditions that allow for the so-called acceptance we witness Scott Hunter receive. While Shane’s Asian biraciality is mentioned at times throughout the series, and more explicitly demonstrated when his mom, actress Christina Chang, appears alongside him, race ultimately remains peripheral to the show’s exploration of queerness. Shane’s racialized identity does not meaningfully shape his experiences of safety, belonging, or risk within hockey, nor does it intersect with his sexuality in ways that challenge the sport’s deeply entrenched whiteness. Race, like queerness, is mainly rendered individualized and rarely politicized. However, there are supporting characters that complicate this otherwise narrow depiction. Svetlana, for instance, plays an important role in Ilya’s life, providing emotional support and cultural context that bridges his Russian background with the broader hockey world. Similarly, Kip’s friends and Rose’s gay best friend, Miles, offer moments of community and mentorship that suggest a more socially interconnected environment. Yet these characters still contribute to the series’ depiction of a post-racial or superficially inclusive society, in which racial difference is largely backgrounded. The friends are present and supportive, but their racial and sexual identities are not central or explored in-depth, making the world appear socially diverse without meaningfully engaging with these diverse identities. Furthermore, Ilya’s storyline offers a particularly instructive lens into the layered constraints faced by gay Russian hockey players, foregrounding how sexuality is shaped not only by sport culture but by geopolitical, legal, and national contexts. The series situates Ilya’s secrecy not as personal reluctance, but as a rational response to the material risks associated with Russian citizenship, including state-sponsored homophobia and the absence of alternative forms of legal protection. This narrative resonates with broader debates that emerged during the NHL’s 2023 Pride jersey controversy, in which “protecting Russian players” was frequently invoked by teams as justification for cancelling Pride initiatives. By embedding these geopolitical realities into Ilya’s character arc, the show offers a rare acknowledgment that inclusion in hockey is not simply a matter of individual choice but is structured by broader regimes of power that extend beyond the rink. However, the absence of racialized, Indigenous, trans, or nonbinary players further underscores the bounded nature of the show’s imagination. By centring queerness almost exclusively through cis, elite (mostly white) male bodies, Heated Rivalry reinforces the idea that inclusion in hockey is most readily granted to those who already conform to its dominant norms.

In conclusion, Heated Rivalry reveals both the promise and the limits of cultural representation as a vehicle for change in hockey. The series meaningfully expands what hockey can feel like for queer fans by centring intimacy, vulnerability, and desire within a space that has long rendered queerness invisible or incompatible. At the same time, the show’s vision of inclusion remains carefully bounded. Queerness is rendered legible through secrecy, individual resilience, and elite status, while the institutions that govern men’s professional hockey remain largely unchallenged. Acceptance appears possible only when it does not provoke resistance, disrupt power, or demand structural accountability. In this sense, Heated Rivalry does not so much imagine a queered hockey culture as it reveals the narrow conditions under which queerness could be tolerated within it. So, can Heated Rivalry affect heteronormative hockey culture? Perhaps, but not on its own. However, what it does do is provide a never-before-seen possibility of queerness in men’s hockey. By rendering queer lives visible, desirable, and emotionally complex within men’s hockey, the series offers possibilities that have previously been unthinkable. These possibilities may resonate with players, fans, and families alike, quietly unsettling the norms that have sustained silence for so long.

The real question, then, is not what Heated Rivalry will do next, but what hockey is willing to do with the possibilities it has already been shown. The NHL has been fairly quiet about the show thus far, beyond acknowledging that it has increased its revenue and viewership. Beyond this commercial acknowledgement, however, the NHL and professional hockey institutions have remained largely silent on the show’s social significance or its implications for inclusivity. If future seasons of the series choose to explore race, sexuality (beyond gay men), or the risks of visibility within hockey’s institutions, such as how players navigate being out while actively playing, they could push these conversations further and bring new dimensions to the story, without needing to rely on the books’ specific plot points. Whether that pressure leads to meaningful change, however, ultimately depends on whether hockey’s governing bodies, its players, its coaches, and other important actors are prepared to confront the structures they continue to protect.

References

Robinson, L. (1998). Crossing the line: Violence and sexual assault in Canada’s national sport. McClelland & Stewart.

Szto, C. (2021). Changing on the fly: Hockey through the voices of South Asian Canadians. Rutgers University Press.

Westhead, R. (2025). We breed lions: Confronting Canada’s troubled hockey culture. Random House.