Finding Myself in Fiction: How Heated Rivalry Helped Me Understand My Loneliness and My Hope

I didn’t expect a pair of hockey romances to crack open something inside me.

I picked up Heated Rivalry and The Long Game because people kept telling me they were beautiful queer love stories. I didn’t expect them to reach into the quietest, most tender parts of my chest—the parts I usually keep wrapped up tight—and show me what connection, devotion, and queer joy can look like. And I definitely didn’t expect them to follow me into my daily life in rural Nebraska, whispering truths I had been avoiding for years.

But that’s what good queer art does. It finds you where you are.

A Love Story That Felt Like a Lifeline

As a trans queer person living in a small rural town, I’m used to loving stories from a distance. I’m used to worlds where queer people exist elsewhere—bigger cities, bigger communities, spaces where love is loud and celebrated. Here, queerness can sometimes feel like something that has to be softened or tucked away, even if you’re out.

So reading Ilya and Shane was like taking a full breath for the first time.

Their rivalry-turned-love wasn’t just entertaining. It was recognizable—that slow, aching build, the longing that feels like both a wound and a promise. Their devotion felt like something I’d always wanted but rarely allowed myself to hope for. These books weren’t afraid of big feelings, or of exploring what it means to want someone so deeply that it changes you.

And as I read, something inside me softened. Something inside me said: You get to want this, too. You get to hope.

Then the Crave Canada Adaptation Hit Me Harder

Watching Heated Rivalry come to life through Crave Canada was a whole different kind of emotional gut-punch.

Seeing two queer men, in love, treated with tenderness—on screen, with a promise of a happily ever after—felt like something I didn’t realize I’d been starving for. Not a tragic ending. Not subtext. Not “almost but not quite.” A real love story. A future.

I realized how rare it still is to see queer men given that much emotional space in mainstream media. And how much it mattered to see it in motion, with actors embodying that love with honesty and vulnerability.

When the final scenes played out, I was undone.
Not just because it was beautiful—though it was.
But because it made me face something I’ve been quietly carrying: I am lonely. Truly, deeply lonely.

Not in a hopeless sense. Just an honest one. These stories didn’t make me feel worse—they made me feel seen. They reminded me that longing is a sign of hope, not weakness. That connection is necessary, not optional. That wanting someone to look at you the way Ilya looks at Shane isn’t a silly dream—it’s human.

Queer Joy as a Radical Act in Rural Nebraska

Living as a trans queer person in rural Nebraska can feel like living between worlds. I like where I live, but it can be isolating. Visibility is complicated. Community is limited. And romantic possibilities? Let’s just say Grindr is not exactly filled with emotionally available, soft-hearted Ilya-and-Shane types.

So seeing queer joy—real queer joy—felt radical.

It reminded me that love isn’t a fantasy reserved for people in bigger places. That even here, in the quiet vastness of the Midwest, connection is still possible. And that my yearning doesn’t make me dramatic or delusional. It makes me human.

Reading these books and seeing the adaptation didn’t just entertain me—they pulled me back into myself. They reminded me that I want a connection. That I deserve connection. And that even in the loneliness, there’s a part of me that still believes in the possibility of deep, heart-shaking love.

Stories Shape Us—Sometimes More Than We Expect

Heated Rivalry and The Long Game didn’t just tell a good love story. They helped me recognize the ache I’ve been tamping down. They reminded me that queer people deserve happily-ever-afters—on the page, on screen, and in real life.

And maybe most importantly, they gave me permission to admit out loud: I want love. I miss connection. I’m lonely. And I still believe in the possibility of something beautiful.

Some books entertain you.
Some books wreck you.
These books did both—and in the best ways possible.

And in the quiet of rural Nebraska, that kind of reminder feels like a small miracle.