If Heated Rivalry isn’t already on your watchlist, many fans would argue it’s time for a serious self-check. The Canadian queer hockey romance has taken viewers by storm, winning hearts with its humor, emotional depth, and unapologetically steamy intimacy. For audiences, the show’s explicit scenes feel daring and intimate, offering a rare glimpse into a love story that unfolds without censorship or shame. Behind the camera, however, every charged moment is the result of meticulous planning, consent-driven choreography, and constant communication.

That responsibility fell to Chala Hunter, the show’s on-set intimacy coordinator. Her role was not simply to oversee sex scenes, but to ensure that the actors’ emotional safety, physical boundaries, and personal comfort always came first. Hunter describes the process as a balance of structure and sensitivity—one that requires just as much precision as a fight scene or complex stunt.

Before stepping into intimacy coordination, Hunter spent years working as an actor herself. That background, she explains, deeply informs how she approaches her work today. Over the course of her acting career, she performed in projects that involved nudity, simulated sex, and intense vulnerability. When intimacy coordination began gaining prominence during the #MeToo movement, she was invited by a colleague to try the role on a film. That first experience convinced her that the work required proper training, not just good intentions.

Hunter went on to earn professional certification through Intimacy Coordinators and Directors International, emphasizing that formal education is crucial. Without it, she notes, productions risk unintentionally crossing boundaries or exposing performers to unnecessary physical or emotional harm.

Such harm can take many forms. Without proper techniques, scenes may encourage avoidable contact or ignore trauma-informed language. Hunter stresses that performers bring unknown histories with them to set, and a coordinator must be mindful of triggers, power dynamics, and consent at every stage.

When asked whether her priority lies with the script or the actors, Hunter is unequivocal: the performers always come first. She sees herself as the advocate on set—the person whose job is to protect consent above all else. Drawing from her own acting experience, she recalls how performers often feel pressure to “serve the story” or please directors, sometimes at the expense of their own comfort. Her presence exists to prevent that imbalance.

Her work typically begins with a thorough script breakdown. She flags not only explicit sex scenes, but also moments that involve partial nudity, physical closeness, or intimate gestures—anything that might require consent discussions or choreography.

When Hunter first read the Heated Rivalry scripts, she wasn’t overwhelmed so much as impressed. The scenes were highly specific, with a clear artistic vision already embedded in the writing. The intimacy wasn’t vague or gratuitous; it was detailed, intentional, and narratively driven, which made her job about refinement rather than reinvention.

One of the most complex scenes to stage was Shane and Ilya’s first hotel-room encounter. As their initial physical connection, the emotional and narrative stakes were incredibly high. Hunter describes the scene as carefully choreographed, almost like a dance, where every movement—who touches first, how bodies align, even when a thumb enters a mouth—was mapped out beat by beat. Rehearsals involved repeated run-throughs until the actors felt confident enough to relax into the performance.

That familiarity is the goal. Once actors internalize the choreography, they’re free to focus on emotion rather than mechanics. Still, technical details remain constant—such as body positioning to conceal modesty garments or foam barriers designed to maintain privacy.

Those garments, colloquially known as “cock socks,” have become a topic of public fascination since cast members mentioned them in interviews. Hunter explains that such garments are standard, personal, and single-use. They’re designed to protect privacy and create physical separation, not to manage arousal.