Part 1: The Iceman Cometh

Friday, January 9th, 2026
(via Signal secure messaging platform)

Jeff Landfield
(8:51 PM) Young Jake
(8:51 PM) I have an assignment for you mate
(8:51 PM) You may or may not fucking hate it
The Intern
(8:52 PM) What’s up
Jeff Landfield
(8:53 PM) Gonna need a full review of heated rivalry! Lmao
The Intern
(8:53 PM) Ah fuck is that the gay hockey show

I would like to open this column series by saying, as the excerpt of mine and Jeff’s conversation might indicate, that this was not my idea. I have subjected myself to bad television before, in the name of the written word and enough money to keep the lights on and my liquor cabinet reasonably full.

The True Detective: Night Country debacle of 2024 was, in its own way, my personal Vietnam. I went in with high hopes, and came out the other side with shell shock and a bad case of malaria. The soul of the freelance columnist is twisted and deranged, but the soul of the freelance TV reviewer is a place bereft of light, a haranguing hell populated by nattering devils and devoid of any human kindness.

It is a bad place to be on the best of days, and this, friends, was not the best of days.

When Landfield hit me up on the last day of my Christmas break, I scoffed initially. At least with True Detective, it was based on the canon of a show for which I had a genuine fondness. Heated Rivalry, I knew through the grapevine, was an adaptation of a chick-lit book written by a Canadian about the competitive relationship between two gay hockey players. I was not the target audience, being neither a millennial woman, nor a gay man (two completely respectable demographics, lest I be accused of some form or flavor of ‘phobia or ‘sogyny, but not demographics of which I am a part.)

I scoffed, dear readers – and then I looked at my bank account, and did some quick math. I have been in a perpetual state of broke-ness since approximately 2023, which neatly coincides with my entry into law school. You expect these sorts of things, with higher education, but it doesn’t make them sting any less. And so, you can’t afford to sneer at any potential gig which might toss a decent chunk of change your way. I have expensive tastes, for liquors from countries not on any current maps, and firearms of questionable origin and legality. These tastes demand financing.

I also, to get ahead of the question, have a girlfriend of two years who will occasionally make pointed remarks that “rings aren’t cheap,” and “wouldn’t it be nice to have a summer wedding?” I don’t know what all that means, but the larger point still stands – The Intern’s salad days are behind him. Now are the days of oatmeal, and bulk lentils, and ground beef marked down to three bucks a pound.

And so, like Marlowe venturing up the river in search of a sweaty, jersey-clad Kurtz, I went journeying into the heart of darkness – Heated Rivalry, now streaming on HBO Max.

Wednesday, January 21st, 2026
(via Signal secure messaging platform)

The Intern
(9:52 PM) Alright I’ll watch the gay hockey show
Jeff Landfield
(10:37 PM) Hahahaha fuck yes!

I had an idea of commenting on the overarching trend within women’s literature; specifically, the seemingly overnight sensation of smut centered around every kind of conceivable scenario and partner: dragons, minotaurs, aliens from an ice planet. Maybe I still will – at any rate, Heated Rivalry is certainly not alone among the rapidly expanding genre of gay hockey romance novels-turned-TV shows.

Part 2: Miracle on Ice (or Hock-ey Tuah, Spit on that Thang!)

Heated Rivalry follows two professional hockey players: Chinese-Canadian Shane Hollander, played with bright-eyed naivete by Hudson Williams, and Russian stereotype Ilya Rozanov, played with a thick-accented sort of glee by Connor Storrie.

The plot is bare-bones, and I will describe it as such. In 2008, Hollander and Rozanov are competitors – Hollander plays for Canadiens stand-in the Montreal Metros, while Rozanov plays for Bruins substitute the Boston Raiders. The two begin a heated rivalry (ohhhh….) after an encounter at the hotel gym, where a sweaty workout serves as a stand-in for a mating ritual, and gratuitous crotch shots are lobbed in the audiences direction, as our sweaty boys stare sexual daggers at each other.

We are rivals, they seem to say, but something… more?? It was at this point I realized how much Shane Hollander looks like Pete Buttigieg, and it’s not because of the shared sexual orientation – he really, really does. A flash forward takes us to six months, or maybe a year later – by the way, half of this show is flash forwards. “Six months,” “one week,” “one month.” The first episode felt like it covered two presidencies.

Hollander, meanwhile, is apparently the youngest recruit in the league’s history, and his mother is working overtime to get him endorsements, including Reebok and apparently Rolex? I don’t think Rolex sponsors hockey – they seem to stick to more expensive sports, like equestrianism, or yachting, or The Most Dangerous Game. It makes the show even funnier when they cut forward and one of the All-Star games is being sponsored by Cheetos. That’s more like it.

Rozanov, for his part, is balancing a complicated family life – a brother in Russia who keeps hitting him up for money and an abusive father who, it is implied, is slowly going senile. At one point, a girlfriend shows up to his spacious penthouse-style apartment, where it is revealed that our Russian power forward’s sexuality is not as cut and dried as it may seem.

But never fear – a shared shower in a communal locker room (where my girlfriend remarked on Rozanov’s “voluptuous butt,” which is the kind of soundbite that has to make it into a column of this caliber) ups the dial on the Rozanov-Hollander relationship from “Rocky III beach running scene” to “Top Gun beach volleyball scene.”

Soundtracking this whole episode was something I could only describe as “knock-off Challengers score,” which sort of incensed me. Not everyone can be Trent Reznor! Leave it to the pros, and put some normal music in the background. Everyone wants to be a DJ, no one knows how to change a tire. I’m 24 years old and already I’m complaining. This, you call a wonderful life?

Taking the elevator on his way up to Hollander’s room, Rozanov bumps into Hollander’s tiger mom, who remarks that “she’s going down.” Lady, what do you think he’s trying to do? I remarked to my girlfriend, who was on her phone. The only one who reacted was our questionably bisexual cat she rescued from a Safeway parking lot, who started humping my arm. He seemed to be the only one who could get into the spirit of this insane television show.

One of the funniest parts of Heated Rivalry is the insane camera angles they take to avoid the viewer seeing any glimpse of The Three Amigos. You see ass galore – more ass than a Planet Fitness locker room, and lots of glistening abs and such, but for an HBO show, this is comparatively pretty tame.

Another thing I found funny is how little these dudes resemble real-life hockey players. Hockey players look like your uncle, and are all missing teeth. They say things like “let’s get sendy, boys, let’s have a real donnybrook.” They “spit Chiclets,” and date “puck bunnies,” or so hockeychirpers.com and several seasons of Letterkenny plus one midnight showing of Slap Shot would have me believe. Hockey players are not toned twinks. Or maybe they are. Who knows. I don’t know what to think anymore.

I was too cheap to spring for the premium HBO package, so a lot of Hollander and Rozanov’s bassline boogies in luxurious Canadian hotel rooms were rudely interrupted by ads for avocados. Not an avocado company, mind you – just the concept of avocados from Mexico. It made a strange trip even weirder.

Hollander, towards the end of the episode, wins rookie of the year, against Rozanov and some other clean-cut young bruiser. This sparks a fight between the two, with Hollander accusing of Rozanov of being jealous. Their relationship continues, hidden from the world, and episode one comes to a close.

A timer I had going throughout the episode indicated that, in fifty minutes, only one minute and twenty-one seconds of actual hockey had been played. You could substitute any sport – polo, curling, pickleball – and it would be essentially the same show – a thin veneer of plot draped over a rock-hard foundation of goalie-on-goalie stick handling. Ay, carumba.

Let me say this – I understand the appeal, even if it doesn’t personally meet any of my needs (Nicolas Cage, punk-on-punk violence, flaming guitar, Justine Lupe, et cetera). It requires very little intensive scrutiny, and the plot (such as it is) is explained in no uncertain terms. It is television for a post-Tik Tok world. David Foster Wallace would be able to say this better, but you get my point. There are five more episodes of this, and I am contractually obligated to watch and report on each one.

If you subscribe to the Alaska Landmine, or buy ad copy on the Landmine, this is where your money goes – and you have to admit, it’s worth every penny.

Jacob Hersh was born and raised in Anchorage. He is currently studying law at the University of Idaho. He occasionally does movie reviews and writes weird columns for the Landmine to get extra money for beer.