The ice was cold. The men were sweaty. I was prepared. I had it all planned out, and I knew exactly what was to come. But then, 30 minutes passed, 40, and an hour — no movement.

There was no intense eye contact, no intentional shoulder-brushings — not even a hint of latent sexual tension. Is this how hockey really is? I started to panic. My breathing grew shallow, and I started breaking a sweat.

The game was halfway over at this point, and I still had a sliver of hope that someone, anyone, would call down their lover from the crowd and come out as gay. Nothing. The most I got was the two people high-fiving behind me with a level of intimacy normally reserved for a family dinner.

I tried desperately to listen for the faintest Russian accent, a quiet “good game” or “see you next season” with obvious sexual undertones, but was left disappointed each and every time.

As an avid “Heated Rivalry” consumer, I am appalled. We, as a community, must band together to turn hockey into what it was really, truly meant to be — secretly erotic. There is joy at these games, and it is abundant. But it’s sharp, weaponized, joy — deployed only to spite the other team. What is this madness? When did sports become so kid-friendly?

By the third period, I was consuming Connor Storrie and Hudson Williams TikTok edits as if my life depended on it. I needed some sort of escape from this “reality” I had just discovered.

The world is a cruel and boring place, but Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov make everything seem not so bad. The two showed us what hockey could be at its fullest potential, then “real” hockey tore that away from us. We saw what we could have, what we deserve, only for it to mean nothing in the end.

Rumor has it, this is why Mnookin has resigned.