The Success of Heated Rivalry Should Not Be a Surprise

Much of the buzz around Heated Rivalry lingers on its role as an out-of-nowhere hit: as a lower-budget drama with no famous stars, as a release from a Canadian streaming service, and as a piece of m/m romance media that managed to break containment in an unprecedented way. At this point, it’s reaching Game of Thrones levels of mainstream attention, with lead actors Connor Storrie and Hudson Williams inspiring full-blown Beatlemania as they continue their publicity tour overseas—recently serving, beyond all reasonable predictions, as torchbearers for a leg of the Olympic Torch Relay leading up to next month’s games in Milan.

Among all this fervor, there’s been a steady stream of thinkpieces attempting to explain why, exactly, this show has sparked such a uniquely feverish reaction. Some coverage offers real insight into the Heated Rivalry phenom, but more often than not, we’re being treated to lukewarm takes on why “straight women” might enjoy a romance about queer men (please, I beg of you, rescue me from this musty old topic), accompanied by bewilderingly ill-informed commentary on the show’s overlap with both transformative fandom and queer media in general. (Why have multiple journalists drawn a direct connection with South Asian BL media, rather than the long-established popularity of m/m ships in general—aka slash—and hockey RPF specifically in Western fan culture? I remain bemused.)

Meanwhile in romancelandia, the excitement around Heated Rivalry comes with a different undertone. Here, the show’s success isn’t remotely confusing or mysterious. If you’re familiar with the expectations of romance genre publishing, you don’t need to resort to armchair psychology to explain the show’s appeal. Adapted by screenwriter Jacob Tierney from the Game Changers series by Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry is one of a very short list of TV dramas that directly translates the escapist appeal of a romance novel. Focusing on two closeted hockey players named Shane and Ilya, it immerses us in the euphoric highs and agonizing lows of an obsessive, years-long secret affair, before concluding with a Happily Ever After (HEA); a defining element of the genre.

When it comes to romance on the small screen, Heated Rivalry’s most prominent predecessor is Bridgerton, and the hype around both shows reflects what the publishing industry has known for decades: Romance is a huge money-spinner, and if you deliver it in an accessible format, audiences will show up in droves. So the real question here isn’t why Heated Rivalry is a hit—it’s why this kind of romance series is so rare in the first place. Why is it so hard for the TV industry to adapt a genre whose tropes and formulas are as clearly defined as CSI? Why don’t we see ten new shows like this every year?