I love bad TV. Emily in Paris, Riverdale, Suits—all I need is a clear thesis about fashion (in these shows, respectively: Americans can’t dress; if we dress everyone weirdly enough maybe the audience won’t notice the insane plot; and business casual is very, very important) and a trite romantic plotline to be a happy camper.
What I’m trying to say is that I could never write a bad review of Heated Rivalry. A series about a shy Wasian-Canadian and a stoic Russian: enemies on the ice but lovers in secret? Grappling with their sexualities and hooking up whenever their teams play against one another? Eventually realizing that they are actually, for-real, in love? I mean, come on!
The trouble with Heated Rivalry is that it somehow escapes trashiness. Writer-director Jacob Tierney uses sex to reel viewers in, and, while they’re not looking, makes them love the characters they were prepared to objectify.
Heated Rivalry’s marketing relies on sex appeal: the trailer features tense dialogue and hockey sticks clashing on ice, interspersed with snippets of the show’s gorgeous stars, Connor Storrie and Hudson Williams, kissing in darkened hotel rooms. And, indeed, the beginning episodes of the season do not disappoint. The first takes nearly an hour to chronicle the long germination of a rivalry between star “MLH” rookies, the Montreal Metros’ Shane Hollander (Williams) and the Boston Raiders’ Ilya Rozanov (Storrie). We witness five different encounters, four of which end in confusing, secretive, and very compelling sex.
In this written format, you may notice the slightly silly stand-ins for the NHL, the Montreal Canadiens, and the Boston Bruins. You may be confused about the logistics of this relationship, in which these two men seem to be obsessed with each other despite the fact that they barely speak, aside from brief, clandestine meetings once every six months. You may even question the premise of the show itself: is there a plot? If so, what the hell is it? But somehow, as Rozanov and Hollander graze hands in locker rooms and steal glances across crowded stadiums, these silly questions—of world-building, reality, and storyline—fade into the background.
Around episode four, something strange happens. After an intense encounter at the Olympics and a brief digression into another gay hockey player’s love story, a plot seems to emerge. While audiences are distracted by Connor Storrie’s gigantic arms and the impending threat of our boys’ secret affair reaching the public, Tierney establishes emotional stakes and nuanced characterizations. Ilya’s complex family dynamic back in Russia, Shane’s deep-rooted insecurities about his sexuality, and questions about the heteronormative culture of hockey at large sneak in, finding homes in the hearts and minds of viewers who think they’re just sitting down to watch another hour of beautiful men kissing.
As the show progresses, its emphasis on sex wanes, and it leans instead on the interpersonal lives of its characters. The fifth episode contains (gasp!) zero explicit scenes, but no less than three incredibly moving emotional confessions; in the season finale, during an especially poignant coming-out scene between Shane and his mother, I must admit that I shed a few tears.
Storrie and Williams, however excellent in the sex scenes for which the series has become famous, shine the brightest in their characters’ most vulnerable moments. Storrie stuns in episode five, delivering a deeply vulnerable monologue entirely in Russian (which he began learning just weeks before filming the show). Standing, and then crouching, in an alley sheltered from the Moscow snow, Ilya tells Shane about the pressures of his family and finally confesses: “I’m so in love with you, and I don’t know what to do about it.” Storrie, across the boundaries of language, portrays the fear that too often accompanies love, especially when stakes are so high. The arrogant facade he has built in the first four episodes crumbles, unveiling a character who cries out for empathy.
Williams’ standout moment, for me, also comes in the season’s penultimate episode, when Shane’s girlfriend, Rose, reveals that she suspects he might be gay. Williams, in this scene and elsewhere in the show, displays a stunning command of his body: working here with the challenge of very little dialogue, he masters the language of eyes, mouth, and shoulders to embody panic, then relief.
The two stars, virtually unknown before this November, stand on the shoulders of a strong supporting cast, many of whom are also making their first foray into popular television with Heated Rivalry. Ksenia Daniela Kharlamova plays Svetlana, Ilya’s childhood friend, with endearing flirtatiousness and a keen, perceptive eye. Robbie Graham-Kuntz and François Arnaud delight as Kip and Scott, who pave the way for queer representation in hockey while Ilya and Shane grapple with their secret love. The show’s platonic and familial relationships deepen its romantic dynamics, and in the introduction of compelling secondary characters, Tierney’s MHL begins to feel real.
Heated Rivalry’s genius lies in its simultaneous embrace and subversion of audience expectations. It sells sex unabashedly, drawing attention to itself by offering the tried-and-true enemies-to-lovers trope in a steamy package while also insisting on the capture of viewers’ hearts. With so much momentum, the bar is high for season two. I, for one, can’t wait to see what Tierney comes up with next.
