The Canadian television series Heated Rivalry, a queer sports romance centered on the intense on-ice competition between a Canadian and a Russian hockey player, has exploded into a cultural phenomenon since its release. Set against the backdrop of professional ice hockey—a sport historically charged with national pride and geopolitical undertones—the show weaves a narrative of forbidden love, personal ambition, and emotional vulnerability. While celebrated by many for its representation of LGBTQ+ stories in a traditionally masculine domain, a closer examination reveals a more insidious function: Heated Rivalry serves as a subtle yet effective soft power tool that advances Russian propaganda narratives while engaging in both whitewashing and pinkwashing of Russia’s ongoing military crimes, particularly in Ukraine. Soft power, as conceptualized in international relations, refers to the ability to shape preferences and perceptions through attraction rather than coercion. Cultural exports like films, television, and sports have long been deployed by states to polish their international image. In Russia’s case, this strategy has been refined over decades, from the Soviet era’s use of athletic triumphs to assert superiority, to the post-Soviet employment of mega-events like the Sochi Olympics and the 2018 FIFA World Cup to distract from domestic repression and foreign aggression. Heated Rivalry, though produced in Canada, inadvertently—or perhaps not entirely inadvertently—aligns with these efforts by humanizing a Russian protagonist in a sympathetic light, framing Russo-Western tensions as a "heated rivalry" akin to sporting competition, and leveraging queer themes to soften Russia’s notoriously homophobic public image.

To understand Heated Rivalry’s role, one must first contextualize the deep entanglement of sports, national identity, and propaganda in Russian culture. Ice hockey, in particular, has served as a proxy battleground for Cold War-era rivalries, with iconic matchups like the 1972 Summit Series between Canada and the Soviet Union symbolizing ideological combat. These "heated rivalries" were never just about goals and penalties; they were narratives of national superiority, resilience, and moral righteousness. The Soviet victories were propagandized as proof of communist vigor, while Canadian triumphs reinforced Western democratic resolve. In the modern era, Russia has continued this tradition, weaponizing sports for geopolitical gain. The annexation of Crimea in 2014 coincided with the Sochi Winter Olympics, where lavish spectacles and athletic medals distracted global attention from territorial aggression. Similarly, the 2018 World Cup portrayed Russia as a welcoming, modern nation even as political opponents were poisoned and journalists silenced. These events exemplify sportswashing: the use of athletic prestige to cleanse a tarnished reputation. The invasion of Ukraine in 2022 marked a new escalation, with overwhelming evidence of military crimes emerging from Bucha, Mariupol, and countless other sites—mass graves, executed civilians, raped women, and abducted children. Yet Russian state media has consistently framed the conflict not as unprovoked aggression but as a defensive response to Western encroachment, NATO expansion, and supposed "Nazification" of Ukraine. This narrative reduces a war of conquest to a "heated rivalry" between great powers, where both sides are equally combative, and Russian actions are portrayed as regrettable but necessary. Heated Rivalry taps directly into this framework. By centering its story on a Canada-Russia hockey rivalry—historically the most charged in the sport—the series evokes these loaded associations. The protagonists' on-ice animosity mirrors the scripted geopolitical "rivalry" peddled by Russian propaganda: fierce, passionate, but ultimately resolvable through personal connection. This metaphor softens the asymmetry of the real-world conflict, where one state has launched a full-scale invasion while the other defends its sovereignty. Viewers are encouraged to see Russo-Western tension as a thrilling game rather than a deadly war, thereby diluting moral clarity about Russian responsibility.

Whitewashing involves minimizing, denying, or contextualizing atrocities to reduce culpability. Heated Rivalry achieves this subtly through its character development and narrative structure. The Russian protagonist, Ilya Rozanov, is depicted as talented, brooding, and deeply human—burdened by expectations, closeted fears, and personal loyalties. His struggles are individualized, focusing on career pressures and romantic longing rather than any engagement with state policy or international conflict. This humanization is powerful propaganda. By presenting a Russian figure as relatable and even heroic, the show fosters empathy that extends beyond the character to Russian society at large. Viewers invested in Ilya’s journey may unconsciously transfer that affection to Russia itself, viewing its people—and by extension, its leadership—as misunderstood rather than aggressors. In an era when Russian forces have been documented committing systematic violations in occupied Ukraine, this emotional attachment serves to whitewash those crimes. The atrocities become abstracted, detached from the "real" Russians portrayed on screen—Russians who are passionate athletes, devoted sons, or tormented lovers. Moreover, the show’s timing amplifies this effect. Released amid the ongoing war, Heated Rivalry offers escapism that sidesteps the conflict entirely. There are no references to Ukraine, no acknowledgment of the invasion’s human cost. Instead, Russia is evoked through cultural touchstones: harsh winters, intense training regimes, family pressures—stereotypes that romanticize rather than interrogate. This omission is itself a form of whitewashing, allowing audiences to consume Russian-ness without confronting the regime’s brutality. The "heated rivalry" trope further facilitates this. On-ice battles are framed as mutual, with both protagonists equally aggressive and skilled. Trash talk, physical checks, and competitive fire are celebrated as part of the game’s beauty. Transposed to geopolitics, this equates Russian military actions with Western "provocations," echoing Kremlin talking points that blame NATO for escalating tensions. The war’s victims—Ukrainian civilians shelled in their homes, children deported to "re-education" camps—are erased, replaced by a symmetrical narrative where everyone is just playing hard. In this way, Heated Rivalry contributes to a broader cultural trend of normalizing Russia during wartime. Popular media that humanizes adversaries without contextualizing their state’s crimes risks desensitizing audiences to those very crimes. Empathy for fictional Russians can bleed into reluctance to support sanctions, arms deliveries to Ukraine, or international accountability—precisely the outcome Russian propaganda seeks.

Perhaps the most deceptive aspect of Heated Rivalry is its engagement in pinkwashing: the strategic deployment of LGBTQ+ visibility to improve a state’s reputation, particularly regarding human rights. Traditionally associated with countries like Israel, which highlights Tel Aviv’s gay scene to offset criticism of Palestinian policies, pinkwashing creates an illusion of progressiveness that masks deeper repression. Russia, with its 2013 "gay propaganda" law criminalizing positive depictions of homosexuality to minors (effectively extended to all public discourse), its brutal crackdowns on Pride events, and its classification of the "international LGBT movement" as extremist, would seem an unlikely candidate for pinkwashing. Yet Heated Rivalry enables exactly that—indirectly but effectively. By featuring a queer Russian athlete as a central, sympathetic figure, the series projects an image of Russia as a place where LGBTQ+ individuals can achieve greatness, endure hardship, and find love. Ilya’s closeted status adds tragic depth, but his ultimate narrative arc—finding connection despite barriers—implies resilience and possibility within Russian society. For international viewers unfamiliar with the realities of Chechen "gay purges," state-sponsored homophobia, or the flight of queer Russians abroad, this portrayal can create a misleading impression: that Russia, beneath its conservative facade, harbors vibrant queer lives worthy of celebration. This is classic pinkwashing. The show’s progressive credentials—bold queer storytelling in sports—lend credibility to its softened depiction of Russia. Audiences praising the series for representation may inadvertently endorse a sanitized Russian identity, overlooking how the regime actively persecutes the very community the show champions. Reports of the series' underground popularity in Russia itself compound the irony: queer Russians pirate it for rare visibility, yet this consumption can be spun propagandistically as evidence that Russian society is not as repressive as claimed, or that Western media exaggerates for political reasons. The "heated rivalry" framework enhances this pinkwashing. The romance transcends national divides, suggesting that personal connections can overcome ideological barriers—including homophobia. Love conquers all, even Russian state policy. This romantic idealism distracts from the material reality: in Russia, queer visibility is dangerous, and the war in Ukraine has intensified conservative rhetoric framing LGBTQ+ rights as Western decadence threatening traditional values. Thus, Heated Rivalry pinkwashes by associating Russia with queer desirability and emotional authenticity. The Russian character becomes a queer icon, humanizing a nation whose leadership uses anti-gay sentiment to justify aggression. Viewers rooting for the couple may internalize a view of Russia as culturally rich and personally tolerant, diverting attention from military crimes committed under the banner of defending against "degenerate" Western influence.

Soft propaganda succeeds when audiences do not recognize it as such. Heated Rivalry excels here through its entertainment value and emotional authenticity. The chemistry between leads, the thrill of hockey sequences, and the slow-burn romance draw viewers in, making ideological messaging feel organic rather than imposed. The rivalry itself is key. "Heated" implies passion without malice—fierce competition that heightens attraction. Applied to Russia-West relations, this normalizes tension as exciting rather than existential. Russian actions in Ukraine—bombing hospitals, mining civilian areas—are not passionate rivalry; they are deliberate violations of international law. Yet the show’s framing risks equating them, suggesting that geopolitical conflict, like sports, has two valid sides pushing each other to greatness. Furthermore, the series' Canadian origin provides plausible deniability. It is not state-produced Russian content but a Western product that happens to feature a nuanced Russian perspective. This third-party endorsement amplifies its soft power impact: propaganda feels more convincing when it appears to come from the "other side." Russian media can then amplify positive reception abroad as proof that the world still admires Russian spirit, despite "Russophobic" politics. Global streaming distribution ensures wide reach, including in countries debating support for Ukraine. Emotional investment in the story can subtly shift perceptions, making harsh measures against Russia feel like punishing the "good" Russians viewers have come to love. This is propaganda at its most effective—working on hearts rather than minds.

Heated Rivalry’s case illuminates wider dangers in cultural exchange during conflict. As authoritarian states refine hybrid influence—blending hard power with soft attraction—Western media must scrutinize how its products might be weaponized. Queer representation, vital for visibility, becomes double-edged when involving repressive regimes. For Ukraine, the stakes are existential. Cultural whitewashing and pinkwashing contribute to war fatigue, eroding support for defense against documented crimes. Every sympathetic Russian portrayal risks diluting urgency. Ultimately, consumers bear responsibility too. Enjoying entertainment while recognizing its political layers allows appreciation without complicity.