By the time a new LGBTQ romance breaks through on television, it’s often the same kind of breakthrough.
Look at “Heated Rivalry,” the steamy hockey drama that quickly became a conversation starter. Two closeted pro athletes, locked in competition, falling into a secret relationship — it’s tense, romantic and easy to pitch. Its popularity isn’t surprising, and it isn’t a problem.
What is a problem is how often shows like it reveal a deeper pattern: television keeps treating one type of queer story — usually centered on cisgender men, often white — as the safest, most marketable version of LGBTQ life, while stories outside that lane remain harder to find and easier to cancel.
The issue isn’t whether queer characters exist on TV anymore. It’s who gets to be the lead, whose love is allowed to anchor a series, and whose stories are treated as expendable.
Progress with limits
There’s no denying television has changed. Gay characters no longer live only in subtext or punchlines. Queer romance can now drive entire shows rather than sit on the margins.
But progress has followed a familiar route. From “Will & Grace” to “Schitt’s Creek” to “Heartstopper,” the industry has repeatedly shown it knows how to package and promote stories about gay men. Those shows mattered — and still matter — to audiences who rarely saw themselves treated with warmth or complexity.
The problem comes when that success is used as proof that representation has been “solved.”
Queer women, bisexual people, trans and nonbinary people and queer people of color still face a different reality. Their shows are more likely to be framed as niche, judged more harshly, marketed less aggressively and canceled sooner. Visibility exists, but longevity often doesn’t.
What gets called “relatable”
Shows like “Heated Rivalry” highlight how the industry defines relatability.
A romance between two men is often framed as a twist on a familiar genre — a love story, just with guys. A romance led by queer women or trans people, especially if they’re people of color, is still treated as “specific,” as if specificity were a flaw rather than the engine of good storytelling.
That logic shows up again and again. “Pose” broke ground by centering trans women of color and ballroom culture with ambition and glamour — and ended after three seasons. “A League of Their Own” expanded its source material to foreground queer women and racial diversity — and was canceled despite strong fan support. “The L Word: Generation Q” brought queer women back to television with a more diverse cast than its predecessor — and still didn’t get the long runway many straight-led dramas enjoy. “Generation,” with its messy, diverse queer teen ensemble, lasted just one season.
None of these shows failed because audiences couldn’t connect. They struggled because television still treats stories outside the white-male center as riskier investments.
Counting characters isn’t the same as equity
Industry reports can make the landscape look healthier than it feels. The number of LGBTQ characters has grown, and more of them are people of color.
But numbers don’t tell the whole story. Many of those characters appear in supporting roles, short-lived series or shows that receive minimal promotion. Representation that disappears after a season doesn’t reshape culture — it teaches viewers not to get attached.
Real equity isn’t about how many queer characters exist at a given moment. It’s about which stories are allowed to grow, to stumble, to find an audience over time.
The myth of risk
Networks often defend these patterns with economics. They talk about international markets, algorithms and financial risk.
But television takes risks constantly — on expensive franchises, untested concepts and familiar creators who get multiple chances. The difference is comfort. Executives know how to sell certain stories because they’ve been selling versions of them for decades.
That’s why queer stories centered on white men are often treated as a safe bridge to the mainstream, while others are expected to be educational, representative and profitable all at once.
Audiences, meanwhile, have moved on. They’re global, diverse and hungry for stories that feel lived-in, not watered down. Specificity isn’t what limits reach; it’s what creates devotion.
What better would look like
Fixing this doesn’t require grand statements. It requires follow-through.
Greenlight queer shows led by women, trans people and people of color with real commitment — not as experiments. Market them like events, not obligations. Let marginalized characters be funny, flawed, ambitious and complicated, not just inspirational or tragic. And stop expecting one series to carry the weight of an entire community.
Most of all, build continuity. One “groundbreaking” show every few years isn’t progress; it’s a press cycle.
A bigger appetite for queer stories
There’s nothing wrong with enjoying “Heated Rivalry.” The problem comes when stories like it dominate the definition of queer television.
If its success proves anything, it’s that audiences will show up for LGBTQ stories when they’re treated seriously. The industry’s mistake is assuming that only one kind of queer story deserves that level of trust.
Queer TV doesn’t need fewer romances. It needs more — across genders, races and experiences — without treating white male love as the default and everything else as a gamble.
Let the hockey rivals have their spotlight. Just don’t pretend the spotlight is the whole stage.
