‘Heated Rivalry’ Review: A Hockey Feud Recast as Glossy Erotic Romance

One of the most eye-catching and loudly celebrated hits of recent times—at least judging by its media presence and social-media footprint—the Canadian series Heated Rivalry now makes its way to the rest of the world via HBO Max. And no, this is not a show that will redefine its genre, nor one that brings anything particularly new to the table. Its popularity comes from elsewhere: Heated Rivalry revolves around a torrid, secret gay love affair between two professional hockey players—one Russian, one Canadian—who publicly present themselves as bitter rivals.

The story begins in the late 2000s. Shane Hollander (Hudson Williams) is the new golden boy of Canadian ice hockey, widely expected to become the most important player in the NHL as he enters the league as the most coveted pick in the draft. Standing in his way is Ilya Rozanov (Connor Storrie), a Russian player living in the United States, competing with Shane for that generational-talent status. For the press, the rivalry is irresistible—think Messi vs. Ronaldo, hockey edition: the serious, talented, introverted Canadian versus the cold, seemingly arrogant Russian star. Rozanov is selected first in the draft and heads to Boston; Hollander lands in Montreal. From the outside, the rivalry only intensifies.

But, of course, there is another story running alongside it. Even back when they were facing each other on their respective national teams, Ilya and Shane were already finding ways to meet away from the spotlight. It starts with casual conversations, loaded looks, playful challenges. One thing leads to another, and while the media debates who is the better player, the two men begin meeting in secret—hotels, luxury apartments—and having sex. For Shane, this appears to be a discovery. For Ilya, not so much: he takes the lead, gently pulling Shane out of his shell. The relationship progresses, as do the tensions and the secrets—and that, friends, is pretty much everything Heated Rivalry has to offer.

The show’s fame rests on something very simple: its sex scenes. Not so much because of what is shown, but because of how straightforward they are (by streaming-platform standards; in cinema they would barely raise an eyebrow), and because they involve two professional athletes with meticulously sculpted bodies. Shot like high-end perfume commercials, these scenes are long, glossy, and filled with dialogue that flirts dangerously with self-parody. Heated Rivalry exists in a narrow limbo between melodrama, soap opera, and a softcore movie you might stumble upon late at night on premium cable.

A typical Heated Rivalry scene might feature a hockey player—shirt soaked with sweat after a workout—entering a café and ordering a smoothie that includes a banana. Cut to the hot barista peeling said banana, locking eyes with him, and declaring, with absolute seriousness, “The banana makes the difference.” If nothing else, moments like this are among the most entertaining in a series that takes itself far too seriously and rarely acknowledges just how kitschy it is—or could be. Based on the two first books of the Game Changers series by Canadian author Rachel Reid, Tierney’s adaptation seems convinced it is saying something important when, in fact, it mostly is not. Perhaps it might have felt more relevant when the story begins (the first season spans 2008 to 2017), but today that sense of urgency has largely evaporated.

The sex scenes themselves are pure advertising erotica. Nearly all of them take place in hotels or impeccably lit luxury apartments, and the actors are forced into bizarre contortions to ensure that no “improper” body parts ever make it onto the screen—combining a supposed sexual openness with a level of caution not even seen in a throwaway episode of Game of Thrones. All of this unfolds to cocktail-lounge music and tight close-ups that seem more interested in promoting gym memberships than intimacy.

Dialogue between the two leads rarely rises above short, obvious lines; they appear to communicate more fluently via text messages than when they are actually together. And it’s not as if the endless SMS exchanges flooding the screen are particularly inspired either. In fact, about half of them consist of messages Shane types and then deletes, worried they might sound too needy for the aloof, emotionally glacial Ilya. On the sports side, creativity is equally scarce: games are shown mostly in wide shots, always accompanied by commentary explaining the context, and—aside from the occasional personal accolade that briefly strains their relationship—it quickly becomes irrelevant who is playing whom or what is at stake.

Perhaps the most monotonous element is the narrative structure itself. The show is held together by title cards reading “Three months later,” “Four months later,” “Spring 2013,” “Summer 2013,” and so on, mechanically marching time forward in the most bland, inconsequential way imaginable. We learn very little about either character outside their relationship—Shane’s parents pressure him in one way, Ilya’s father in another; Shane has always been serious, disciplined, career-driven, while Ilya is more permissive in his personal life—and there doesn’t seem to be much more beneath the surface, beyond their shared fear, for different reasons, of their relationship becoming public. And while it is true that media representation of gay themes in the world of sports is minimal, one does not get the sense that the series is conceived from that perspective. At best, it exploits it.

A welcome shift occurs in the third episode, when it is revealed that another hockey player is also gay and keeping it secret. The format does not change much (he is, in fact, the one enjoying the blueberry-banana smoothie), but at least new faces, stories, and voices enter the picture. This detour gives the series some breathing room and introduces a character capable of speaking more than five consecutive words, along with his new partner—the barista in question, nicknamed “Kip.” Even briefly told, their story is more engaging than all the others combined. Inevitably, however, the focus returns to our troubled protagonists, and Tierney offers little that is new or meaningful in each subsequent encounter, beyond a fresh sexual position or a momentary spike in tension.

Still, that is not where Heated Rivalry’s success lies. And if the sex scenes are enough, then it will almost certainly be a hit everywhere.