When Dylan MarcAurele finally made time to watch the hit hockey romance Heated Rivalry last fall, it only took him five minutes to fall “totally in love” with the show.
Obviously, he wasn’t alone. It’s almost impossible to think of another television show that has become more of an instantaneous phenomenon than Heated Rivalry. Released by Canadian streaming service Crave, the NSFW series about rival hockey players Shane Hollander (Hudson Williams) and Ilya Rozanov (Connor Storrie) not only became one of the biggest shows of 2025, but skyrocketed its unknown leads into international stardom. By the time the final episode aired, people were already clicking play to watch the entire season again. MarcAurele sat down and wrote an entire musical.
Heated Rivalry: The Unauthorized Musical Parody is the result of that love-at-first-sight experience. And similarly to its namesake, the off-Broadway show currently playing at the Culture Club in Manhattan has experienced an outsized response from theatergoers. MarcAurele worked with former Second City director Alan Kliffer to turn three frenzied weeks of writing and composing into a one-night-only concert. That sold out. They put on another. That also sold out. Now, what started as a small parody-musical-that-could has become a hit off-Broadway experience, complete with two extensions and in Canada and the U.K. The musical retells the story of Heated Rivalry, this time telling the tale of hockey players who want to kiss and explore each other’s bodies from the perspective of the straight, female fans who turned it into a hit. It’s a framing that, if done poorly, could have landed on the side of something cruel and misogynistic. Instead, Heated Rivalry: The Unauthorized Musical Parody delivers something precious and side-splitting and sexy all in the same breath. And ironically — just like the source material — its creators aren’t quite sure how they got here.
Cherry Torres, Jay Armstrong Johnson, Jimin Moon, Ryan Duncan, and Ryann Redmond Matthew Murphy*“I wrote the thing over the course of three weeks. It kept getting bigger and bigger,” MarcArele tells Rolling Stone. “[We] got a Broadway cast of heavy hitters that are just amazing and eventually started joking about off-Broadway. Turns out that wasn’t a joke either.”
There’s no easy way to fit six hour-long episodes that cover almost a decade of romantic development into 75 minutes on stage. But fans will recognize the major tentpoles of this parody musical. Played by Jimin Moon (Sunset Boulevard), Shane Hollander is a wide-eyed hockey star burdened by potential and an ever deepening crush on his biggest rival, Ilya Rozanov, a Russian hunk played by Jay Armstrong Johnson (Parade), who turns what could’ve been a one-off fling into a secret years-long relationship. Their love story plays out on stage, backed by songs like the innuendo-heavy “Shane Hollander, Slap That Stick” and the Russian childhood retrospective “Big Ass, Cold Heart.” There’s also the cast’s favorite ballad “This Fuck” — which would actually fit right in on Broadway — in which Shane describes how “this fuck felt different from the last fuck” while a nonplussed Ilya makes him a tuna melt.
The show turns the cast and budget constraints of off-Broadway into a cheeky-mid show icebreaker, bringing a pre-chosen audience volunteer onstage to play the role of veteran hockey player Scott Hunter (François Arnaud in the TV series). The character — usually someone who can at least embody the spirit of the salt and pepper, smoothie-loving athlete — reads from a binder before being pulled around by cast in a lightning fast recap of his solo episode. Having a stranger suddenly responsible for action onstage can be nerve wracking. “I can’t breathe when I see it because I’m so nervous every time, and it always pays off,” MarcAurele says. “Sometimes the laughter from the audience is so loud that you can’t even hear the lyrics. I’m in heaven when that happens.
“One time the person was asleep!” Moon says, laughing.
But the sharpest framing choice is the show’s narrators, a group of exasperated and tired moms known as the Susans who, according to the show’s lore, discovered the series while on a girls’ trip to Montreal and are speedrunning the show’s appeal to a rapt audience. Their children are exhausting and the housework never ends and their husbands are babies. The only thing they want, as they sing together, is “gay hockey players with big butts / sucking dick but they’re sad / learning truths about themselves.”
“It’s this idea of three wine-drunk moms telling you the version they remember in their sauvignon blanc-induced fever,” Moon says. “The audience feels comfortable laughing at things in the show because they’re like, ‘Oh, it’s done with love.’”
Cherry Torres, Jimin Moon, Ryann Redmond, Jay Armstrong Johnson, and Ryan Duncan Marc J Franklin*No matter how good or prescient the lyrics, the show couldn’t exist without the perfect Shane and Ilya, which is why Kliffer and MacAurele tell Rolling Stone they feel so lucky that Moon and Johnson — their first choices — were in. “In their own way, they’re in love,” Kliffer says. “They really fall in love with each other over and over again every single night.” After casting was complete, the single most important goal for the creative team was not letting the parody aspect of the work take away any of the earnestness from their performances.
“I walked into the initial rehearsal with an accent that was borderline Transylvanian, and Alan and Dylan reeled me in really quickly,” Johnson says. “Connor Storrie is unbelievably good in the show, so all I have to do is pay homage to the grounded, ridiculous, ‘Wow, can’t believe he’s not Russian’ work that he did, and then ride the wave from there.”
Moon adds that the show’s large fanbase means theatergoers are almost always willing to ride that line between comedy and sincerity. “There’s moments when the audience will [go] ‘Ah!’ or ‘Whoo!’ [during] the iconic moments of yearning or loving in the show. That’s the part that feels thrilling to us,” they say. “What you’re taught when you’re learning to do comedy is to mean [it] sincerely. Everything has to be so deadass. That’s what makes it funny.
Since the show’s New York premiere on May 26, Heated Rivalry: The Unauthorized Musical Parody has also opened in Montreal at and is scheduled to run at the Edinburguh Fringe Fest beginning Aug. 5. With two extensions under their belt, and is now scheduled to end on Nov. 1 after a successful 22 week run. But Kliffer and MarcAurele tell Rolling Stone that even when cast and crew take their final bows in New York, they know the story will keep going.
“There’s so many possibilities. Because this has been going so fast, it’s almost hard to take everything in. So we’re just letting it go one piece at a time, and hoping it runs for as long as it possibly can,” Kliffer says. “I mean, Phantom played for 30 years.”









Romana Didulo and her followers took over a decommissioned school in Saskatchewan and painted it purple. Zander Sherman
Many of Didulo’s followers found her through her videos and other social media channels.
Didulo speaks at a protest of Covid vaccine mandates on Parliament Hill in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada Feb. 3, 2022. Patrick Doyle/REUTERS
Ashley St. Germaine is a senior investigative officer with the RCMP in Regina, Saskatchewan.
Brad Miller was mayor of Richmound, a prairie town of about 120 people, when Didulo and her followers moved into the old school.Zander Sherman
After the encounters with the Kingdom, Miller sleeps with a firearm under his bed.
After Didulo and her followers moved into the old school, a fence was constructed around the property.
Didulo and several followers were arrested in 2025 during a raid on the school.Shawn Mullin/Swift Current Online


Christine Wonsley with her husband, Elmore (second from left), attorney Ben Crump (left), and Rev. Al Sharpton (right), during a memorial service for her son Nolan Xavier Wells.Gerald Herbert/AP

Donald Trump and FIFA President Gianni Infantino stand as Spain celebrates its World Cup victory, on July 19, 2026.
America Got the World Cup It Deserves — Good and Bad
For the past six weeks or so I’ve been having a recurring fight with my friends. The dispute is over whether or not it’s ethical to support the U.S. national team in the World Cup.
To the vast majority of people reading this article, this is an absurd question: of course you can and should support the United States Men’s National Team, you weirdo. And look, I’m with you. But despite the fact that my friends are pompous dorks who are no fun to watch the game with, the question they raise is valid: Are our national teams avatars of the administration in power, or of the people and promise of that country?
If you believe the former, then yeah, it’s pretty fucking weird to support the USMNT. In doing so, by that thinking, you’d be engaging in a sort of athletic nationalism on behalf of a country run by Donald Trump, the most corrupt president in history, who forced the Iranian national team to flee across the border immediately after the final whistle of each of their games, whose federal police have shot numerous civilians dead in the street during a brutal immigration crackdown, who has started a war and supported a genocide while covering up his close personal friendship with the most notorious pedophile in modern history.
I mean just look at him. On Sunday he waddled down onto the field to present Spain with their trophy, lingering on stage with the victorious team as they tried to celebrate. The presence of Mexican President Claudia Steinbaum and Canadian Prime Minister Mark Carney did little to dilute the image of Trump standing next to his crony Gianni Infantino, grinning at all the trappings of their power, hands caressing a trophy they’d done nothing to earn, lingering well past his cue to leave Spain to their glory. This World Cup, literally, had Donald Trump’s fingerprints all over it.
And yet, this was one of the most thrilling, beautiful World Cups in recent memory. That’s America, baby — contradictions abound.
Over the past five weeks of the greatest athletic competition on Earth, we’ve seen games that will literally never leave my memory. The final, which I attended yesterday in New Jersey, was remarkably forgettable — a 0-0 draw until the 106th minute, with Spain dominating every second of play and yet unable to score, undone time and time again by their insistence on tricksy passing and the personal heroics of Argentina’s goalkeeper Emi Martinez. The rest of the tournament, however, delivered. Cabo Verde, refusing to lose until the very last moments of the first knockout round, battling back again and again against both teams that would eventually play in the final. The sheer dominance of France’s Kylian Mbappe in front of goal, scoring at will, rivaled only by the aging GOAT Leo Messi and the Norwegian warlord Erling Haaland. England’s heroic stand at the Estadio Azteca in Mexico City, 45 minutes in the rain, a man down, holding out for the win and singing “Wonderwall” with what felt like half the stadium when it ended. Off the pitch, too: the Algerian national team being welcomed with open arms by Lawrence, Kansas; Scottish braves drinking Boston dry and partying wildly with Haitian fans that overcame so much just to be at the tournament. In Mexico, of course, the World Cup was everything, and its fans threw joyous South Koreans pumped full of tequila into the air, and celebrated in the streets with opposing fans even after their hard-fought defeat to England.
For the United States, what the 2026 World Cup was — what our team was, what our fans were, what our performance as hosts was — is a reflection of two things at once: what our nation is and what it can be.
Our star striker, Folarin Balogun, was born here by accident, a citizen only because of a birthright system that our president is currently trying to erase. We have Ricardo and Giovanni and Freeman and Zendejas. We have another striker whose name is Haji, for goodness sake. I look at that team and I see the country America can be, one in which any soul born in or living within our arbitrary borders can become part of a great national project that seeks to improve the lives of everyone it can. And yet, I can also look at that team and see a reflection of what the country is, because there is an anchor around its neck. When Balogun was — albeit unjustly — suspended for a crucial match, Trump himself stepped in. Cronyism saved the day and got Balogun reinstated, but ruined the fragile harmony the team had enjoyed. On the pitch against Belgium, they came apart. Temperamental star Christian Pulisic tried to go alone and then quit, aging defender Tim Ream’s legs failed him when he needed them most, a young goalkeeper slipped and fell when he had no good options for support.
What more can you say about a team, about our country? The team is an entity that is capable of more but still has so far to go, that is vulnerable to the same forces of avarice and selfishness and fear that plague our national identity writ large.
It’s possible to end the story there, to say good riddance to another failed year and fractured team. But I think that’s a mistake. I think if you believe that you haven’t really been watching. I think that’s also why it pissed me off so much that some of my friends wouldn’t root for the U.S. Yes, we have flaws, like every country involved in the tournament. Yes, our current team management and political government are filled with morons. But if you won’t put on the shirt you’re essentially opting out of our future. We can’t wait around for a better world, a better team, a better president, before we deign to lend our support. Progress only comes from effort, from caring, from believing in something more.
One of my favorite images of the World Cup was a crowd shot of the opening match against Paraguay in Los Angeles: every race, color and creed of American there is, all covered in red white and blue. It’s corny and trite, sure. But that’s what it’s all about. That’s why we’re here. You have to believe. The U.S. won that game 4-2. In four years, we’ll be even better.