LadyKnightEllen

Meanwhile, Ilya: Woohoo boys let's play some fucking hockey [Timber by Pitbull blasting at full volume]

Cliff Marleau, probably: Hollander's gonna kill you in cold blood, man.

Ilya: Cliff. Cliff let me look in your eyes when I say this. I know. I will enjoy it very much. My night ends the same whether I win or lose, Marley. Anyway. [Song switches to Party Rock Anthem] LET'S MAKE THEM WORK FOR IT BOYS. WOO

Cliff: Dude what is this playlist.

The crew shows up totally unsure of what to expect, charmed but surprised when it's Ilya opening the door in a tank and sweats and dramatically sighing, "Is meal prep day."

They spend hours filming the couple navigating the kitchen, arguing over how much salt to put in their egg cups, talking about how they learned to cook together when they first made a real go of their relationship.

Shane keeps his hands busy and his eyes focused on his prep work, and that makes it easier to talk about the murky grey area between healthy food choices and disordered eating. Ilya just rubs his back and mocks how he's dicing the bell peppers and keeps calling what he's wearing his "unlucky sweatpants" until Shane hits him in the face with a spatula while mumbling something about tuna melts.

Surprising exactly no one, the video goes viral when it drops on YouTube. It explodes on socials, with thousands of people stitching together Ilya saying "is meal prep day" with videos of their own meal prep, their healthy habits, sharing their own journey to loving food and treating it as fuel and not punishment. They use the tag #eatlikehollanov and it trends immediately.

Ilya's favorite part is when fans start to battle over #eatlikehollanov - the food posts get overtaken with videos and photos of them out at social events, serving cunt and generally looking like top designers battle it out for who gets repped by The Gay Wonder Twins of Hockey (which they do, and stop calling us that, we're married you perverts).

Then Shane and Ilya are spotted at a bar making out in a dark corner and everyone remembers these two probably spend 30% of their waking hours eating each other alive, and suddenly it's #eatlikehollanov munch munch munch yum yum yum.

The Centaurs jump on the trend, sharing their own food prep videos with increasing innuendo. Luca Haas turning bright red while eating a glazed donut gets 3 million views, but Troy really breaks the internet by eating a banana while maintaining eye contact with the camera the whole time. Harris threatens to replace the Kiss Cam at games with #eatlikehollanov and Shane tries his hardest to crawl into a corner and die because he just wanted to share how he protein loads, you guys, why did you have to make it so weird.

It doesn't even occur to Shane that this conversation could go any better than it went with his parents, who had an impossibly quick turnaround on Ilya all things considered, until he's telling Rose and instead of her response being some variation of "why him?" she goes, "You're kidding me, Ilya Rozanov? He is so hot!"

And Shane freezes, the automatic defense sticking at the tip of his tongue. He tries to recalculate, but in the moment all he can manage is a flustered, "I- yeah. I mean he's - yeah, he is."

Something softens in Rose's expression, and then she's pulling at his arm, urging him to come sit down on the couch next to her. "You need to tell me everything, Shane! All the details, the dirtier, the better."

Shane sits, the relief flooding him enough to make his knees weak. His face feels warm but it's not embarrassment or shame coloring his cheeks - or maybe it's a little bit of embarrassment, because some of the details are really dirty, but mostly it's joy. It's pride, even.

"I'm not gonna do that," he laughs.

Rose raises her eyebrows expectantly. 'You, Mr. I-prefer-being-the-hole,' she seems to be silently saying. 'You don't want to share?'

"Okay, maybe some of the details," Shane concedes. He can't stop smiling.

"Fuck, yes," Rose squeals. She puts her hand on Shane's shoulder, standing. "Hold on, I need to get the rosé for this."

"You are such a cliché."

Rose waves her hand, an 'I know, I know' gesture.

The conversation lasts a couple of hours and Shane shares more about Ilya than he's shared with anyone. More than he even means to, so the rosé was definitely the right call. He can't stop himself because Rose is so happy, so excited for him. She gasps at all the right moments, giggles when Shane's blush gets impossibly brighter, leans in when Shane shows her pictures of Ilya and gives her gushing approval.

"Of course you landed the only hockey player who's even remotely as hot as you," she sighs. "You overachiever."

Shane laughs. "He's much hotter than I am!"

"Mm, agree to disagree."

You just finished reading every queer hockey story available to man—and holy Wayne Gretzky—you're a newly minted hockey fan. You love the gays; you want to watch the sexy men zoom around in the boy aquarium, and it's Friday night. So you tune into an NHL game.

You're a brand new hockey fan and you can see that there's twelve men on the ice, a bunch of others on the bench, there's coaches, assistant coaches, goalie coaches, referees, retired NHL players doing analysis and color commentary. You scan the faces, and all are consumed by the reason for tonight's gathering: working together to get a vulcanized piece of rubber into a goddamn net. We've left the outside world behind; color, creed, orientation, immigration status, and gender matter not. All that matters is the effort these athletes put out on the ice.

Yet, as a new, leftist hockey fan, pick any one of these people, and flip a coin—and there's a decent chance that this player has conservative politics. If they're American and registered to vote, there's a 43.9% chance they are registered as a Republican and if they voted, they voted for Donald J. Trump.

src: From Peter Lutz on Vote Hub

And I'm sure if you asked the other 38.5% of NHL players, they'd say something alone the lines of "I don't really do politics." You know, the type of "uh...I think everyone should stop fighting" response that the willfully under-informed offer when you bring up genocides.

Oh man. Oh gosh. That's so weird. You got into hockey because of the myriad of stories that celebrate queerness and marginalized identities and intersectional feminism—so what is up with this league? Why is it so different from the stories that use it as an athletic backdrop? Has it always been like this? And how did you end up here? Why are so many other fannish/bookish left-leaning people like yourself finding solace in a league where there are millionaires who will gladly win it all and shake hands with a self-proclaimed fascist?

If you're at all like me, a leftist Black woman, it's a simple cycle.

You discover the world of hockey and the NHL which is strange and fascinating. The blood, sweat, and tears compel you. Yes, it's filled with white people—like it's mostly white people whatthefuckisupwiththat—but they're a different sort of people because this niche underground culture is...strange and fascinating! They have slang and enormous asses!

It is very gay. The homosociality of hockey breeds a male repression unmatched by any other form of physical exertion. You feel safe here now; you feel justified. Nevermind the fact that toxic masculinity is the thing you're actually observing. You were born with slash goggles on. If these men can't untie the bow on their unconscious desires and unrealized tenderness, you can do it for them.

Reality strikes. A good rule of writing is that characters are what they do. And whenever you peek into the real world of the NHL...you see what the league and its players do—or don't do. Time after time again you're presented with political inaction from the league, racism, misogyny, transphobia, and apathy towards the things you really care about. You learn slowly, that the NHL is a league that moves at glacial speeds, pun intended. It is, simply, not progressive.

Well, at least you have hockey romance and that is progressive! You don't need professional men's hockey! You can make a difference! Yay!

...But oh good God, now you've spread the gospel of hockey to hundreds—maybe thousands of people with your hockey fandom. And the people with whom you shared it? They may never make it to step three. (Picture me running from laptop to laptop, closing the Word documents of various hockey romance writers. I kind of sound like Jimmy Stewart: "Stop! St-stop it now! We're spreading it! Dontcha know we're spreading it, huh? You're sending 'em down to the boy aquarium, but that's no boy aquarium! That's MAGA territory, you see! These people think Bernie Sanders is crazy!")

Am I saying that watching an NHL game is like buying a signed copy of Harry Potter and the Cursed Child? No. (But someone do the math on that.) Any time we engage with any of the major sports we put money in the coffers of billionaires. (The PWHL is owned by billionaire Mark Walters, who is the owner the Lakers, Dodgers, and Sparks. He donated to Obama and the DNC and is always happy to visit the White House—even if it's to hang out with Trump when his sports team does well. Do NOT get me started on the MLB)

All I am saying is that, you, new hockey fan, can save yourself a lot of time and frustration by enjoying the league, but by also knowing precisely the league that is being marketed to you. You will be disappointed with player politics. You will be lulled by the basest forms of rainbow capitalism. 43.9% of American NHL players are registered Republicans. You will find yourself accepting the bare-minimum. (I was way too proud of Sidney Crosby for like, knowing a gay person?)

The numerous queer books and media that have come before Heated Rivalry deserve just as much love and attention. Especially Casey McQuiston’s books.

In fact, I feel like the fluffy romcom nature and sexual intimacy portrayed by RWRB walked so that the sexual honesty of Heated Rivalry could run.