In a development that has left literary critics reaching for the smelling salts and sports columnists reaching for the dictionary, British television producers have officially cornered the market on the hottest new genre to emerge from the fevered brows of publishing houses: the ice hockey romance novel. Yes, you heard that correctly. The sport of frozen violence, missing teeth, and inexplicable fighting rules has somehow become the vehicle for the most tender, emotionally intelligent romantic heroes since Mr. Darcy first insulted Elizabeth Bennet. And our very own Sceptered Isle is leading the charge, exporting visions of Canadian hunks with British accents to a grateful world. I can only assume this is some form of cosmic reparation for exporting James Corden.
The trend, which has seen a surge of television adaptations of novels where impossibly sculpted hockey players wax lyrical about consent and emotional availability while also checking opponents into plexiglass, has baffled everyone who has ever watched an actual ice hockey game. The real sport, for those unfamiliar, involves men who look like they’ve been carved from granite and fed a diet of raw meat and amphetamines, skates that double as weapons, and a level of violence that would make a rugby player wince. But in the pages of these novels, the same men are writing poetry, crying about their troubled pasts, and performing acts of clitoral heroism that would put Casanova to shame. It is a beautiful lie, and we are lapping it up.
The UK’s involvement in this phenomenon is particularly telling. We are a nation that has, historically, shown all the enthusiasm for ice hockey that one might show for a particularly aggressive form of water polo. We do not understand the offside rule, we think a ‘power play’ is something involving a union official, and we are deeply suspicious of any sport that requires more padding than a Victorian orphanage. Yet here we are, producing lavish television dramas set in the frostbitten arenas of Minnesota and Alberta, populated by actors with perfect teeth and a desperate need to look like they’ve just taken a puck to the face. It is cultural appropriation of the highest order, and I am here for it.
The secret, of course, is that these stories are not about hockey at all. They are about the fantasy of a man who is both strong and gentle, aggressive in the boardroom but tender in the bedroom, a warrior who will fight for your honour but also remember your coffee order. The hockey setting is merely a flourish, a way of making the hero seem dangerous without actually having to deal with the consequences of real danger (like, say, a drug cartel or a mortgage default). It is the literary equivalent of putting a lion in a zoo: still impressive, but safely behind glass. And British producers, with our innate love of period costumes and emotional repression, have perfected the formula. We take the raw material of these novels, we add a dash of Downton Abbey-style social structure, a pinch of the moral earnestness of a BBC docudrama, and we serve it up as a steaming bowl of comfort for a world that is frankly exhausted.
Is it art? Probably not. Is it entertainment? Undeniably. Will it lead to a sudden spike in British children demanding to play ice hockey, only to be confronted with the reality of a cold rink and a distinct lack of romantic forwards? Almost certainly. But for now, let us raise a glass of cheap gin (the only kind worth drinking) to the men written by women. They may not exist, but by God, we need them.
