Long before its debut on HBO Max last month, the new drama series Heated Rivalry generated its own buzz, mainly due to its provocative premise and the vague hints of its creative intentions. Created by Jacob Tierney, the series follows two fiercely competitive and openly gay ice hockey players, who indulge in their attraction both on and off the ice while vying for sporting supremacy.
The show’s backstory hints at its roots: it is adapted from a series of novels by Canadian author Rachel Reid, whose works have gained popularity for weaving steamy romance into sports narratives, riding the current wave of ‘hate-to-love’ storylines that have captivated a youthful audience. However, the primary driver behind Heated Rivalry’s attention remains the extensive and explicit depictions of gay sex, perhaps an intentional choice to capitalise on the genre’s increasing visibility.
From the outset, Heated Rivalry delivers a relentless stream of steamy encounters. One moment, icy Russian star Ilya Rozanov (Connor Storrie) is exchanging longing glances with humble local hero Shane Hollander (Hudson Williams); the next, they’re sharing intimate moments in showers or in plush hotel suites. Their physical chemistry is palpable, if somewhat stereotyped, creating a narrative where sexual tension becomes a primary narrative force, occasionally overshadowing character development.
Despite the heat, viewers expecting a hefty dose of on-ice action and sport-driven storytelling might find themselves disappointed. The series appears less interested in exploring the nuances of masculinity, the psychology of athletes, or the homophobic challenges within hockey’s culture. Instead, it fixates on the clandestine thrill of forbidden encounters, though arguably, the characters’ disregard for their uniforms during intimate scenes strains credibility for sports fans.
The depiction of sex in Heated Rivalry has sparked debate. While not as explicit as critics feared, the scenes are undeniably vigorous, an exaggeration potentially aimed at emphasising their vigour over authenticity. The actors’ physiques, polished to perfection, resemble mannequins dipped in synthetic lubricant, a choice that, coupled with highly choreographed intimacy, strips spontaneity from the proceedings, creating an effect somewhat akin to the wax figures from a Bret Easton Ellis novel, minus the biting satire.
Moreover, much of the narrative focuses on the characters’ physical union rather than emotional depth, making their relationship feel more like a mutual need for validation than a complex romance. When Rozanov and Hollander are not fooling around, they exude monotony; their dialogue remains sparse and uninspired, with little hint of genuine vulnerability or conflict.
In an attempt to maintain viewers’ interest, the series’ third episode steers away from the central couple, concentrating instead on Scott Hunter, a closeted teammate embroiled in a lukewarm relationship with local barista Kip. Here, the narrative indulges in a tired trope: the “secret gay athlete” storyline, rife with banal conversations and unconvincing emotional beats. The subplot feels like a diverting but ultimately forgettable detour, adding little to the overarching themes.
Performances across the board tend toward the wooden, perhaps reflecting the stereotype of stoic sportsmen, yet Connor Storrie’s portrayal of Rozanov offers a notable exception. With just twenty seconds on screen, he commands attention, oozing charisma, sensitivity, and a hint of underlying pain. His dynamism suggests he could elevate the series if paired with a stronger scene partner or a more compelling storyline.
As Heated Rivalry progresses, a sense of unease grows. It stands at the intersection of a trend , a surge of gay-themed romantic comedies and dramas like Heartstopper and Red, White & Royal Blue , that seem to commodify gay culture for mass appeal. Critics have pointed out a fetishisation within this wave: portraying gay men as largely desexed, palatable creatures domesticated for sympathetic viewing, often shaped narrowly by the gaze of predominantly young female audiences.
While the series may boast more explicit scenes than many predecessors in the genre, it risks perpetuating stereotypes rather than confronting the realities of gay masculinity. The production’s aesthetic choices, actors’ hyper-polished bodies and choreographed intimacy, resemble performative cosplay rather than authentic representations of lived experience.
At the halfway point, Heated Rivalry leaves a mixed impression. It offers titillation and visual spectacle, but little substance or originality. Its approach to portraying gay relationships in a sporting context remains superficial, and its reliance on familiar tropes raises questions about genuine representation and cultural understanding.
In an era where media increasingly seeks authentic and nuanced portrayals of LGBTQ+ lives, this series arguably falls into the trap of exploiting gay themes without sufficient depth. It provides a visual and visceral thrill, but will it respect or truly reflect its audience? That remains uncertain. For now, Heated Rivalry is likely to satisfy viewers seeking escapist eroticism, but it may leave others questioning whether it advances or diminishes the diversity of stories within gay culture.
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