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Teen Vogue @TeenVogue
Introducing Connor Storrie as our April cover star. In this candid interview, the “Heated Rivalry” breakout star opens up to @Marie_Guillen about season two of the hit Canadian TV Show, stepping back as Ilya Rozanov, and working once more with on-screen partner Hudson Williams.
Read the transcript below:
MG: Season two of Heated Rivalry is premiering next week, congratulations.
CS: Thank you, thank you.
MG: And you’ve been renewed for a third season. That’s crazy! It must have—I mean, congratulations to that, too, obviously.
CS: I know, right? It’s crazy, really. I know it’s not an uncommon practice to renew seasons before the next one could even air, but it’s still surreal to see this love and appreciation for our show. For the stories, specifically, that we tell in our show.
MG: We’re all dying to know, what can fans expect going into season two? No spoilers!
CS: God, I was just about to say, I can’t spoil anything!
MG: Okay, but surely you have something. Especially when it comes to our favorite couple, Shane and Ilya. If you had one word, what would it be?
CS: If I had one word… Hmm… I would say it’s… crazy?
MG: Crazy?
CS: Yeah, I mean, fans of the books probably already know where we’re heading with the story. The first book and the first season, a lot of Shane and Ilya’s relationship is defined by the tension they’re under in. Their “will they or won’t they?” game they played for close to a decade. And then season two I think is more about this shift in the dynamic. What happens in an actual relationship? What sorts of things would these two characters who are so deeply in love gonna get up to now that it’s a different set of problems that they have to face.
Connor is standing outside his hotel, down by the side entrance, hidden in an alley and shivering against the cold, cigarette burning down between his fingers on one hand. His other hand is preoccupied, tapping through a thread he’s been obsessively checking every single day since the last time they saw each other: Huddy, sitting there in the middle of all his other texts.
Their last conversation—if it even qualifies as one—revolves around a link to some Tiktok Hudson thought was funny. Or, at least funny enough to send. That’s what Connor presumes. He doesn’t really know what Hudson’s thinking anymore, nowadays. Staring at it wouldn’t feel weird, not really, except for the part where the link was sent three weeks ago, and three weeks is a long time for them both. That, and the part where Hudson hadn’t even sent it on his own. Connor had to ask. A casual “hey, Huddy, seen anything good lately?” sent during a filming break while he was reading through a script. Hudson had answered with the link and nothing else, like he was fulfilling his daily ‘Give Connor Attention’ task of the day. Some fucking obligation. Connor felt humiliated enough in that moment not to reply.
He scrolls up slowly, looking at their past messages. Scrolls up far enough that he gets to messages from months ago. There used to be so much more; it never really dawned on him how much he and Hudson used to talk until Hudson stopped talking. How much they shared with each other until Hudson decided he didn’t want to share anything anymore. Stupid photos of Hudson with his middle finger up, making faces at the camera. Plans to meet up in Vancouver. Throwing the idea of getting another tattoo around. Hanging out when he’s in LA. Minor messages that started with nothing but ending three hours later having talked about everything.
Now, it’s just this: a sparse thread of polite exchanges, stretched too far apart in time. Connor tells himself that it’s natural. It happens all the time, especially in their line of work. Actors get busy. Shoots and schedules and events and obligations in different timezones will always explain everything. He’s gotten good at that, these days. Telling himself these things to convince his brain that nothing has changed.
The worst part of it all is that Connor can’t pinpoint exactly when and where things started to go wrong between them. At the same time, he won’t stand here and lie and pretend that he hasn’t noticed the gradual decline. Mold, growing over their friendship. What was that thing people say about rotten apples? How it poisons the barrel and nothing is safe? He wonders, if he could peel back their layers—all that history, everything they have ever shared, would he find rot, too? Is there nothing sacred anymore between them? But this is all rhetorical. Connor isn’t really asking, because he’s not sure he’s going to like the answer.
The cigarette burns too close to the filter before he notices. He takes one last drag, one last inhale, before he flicks it away, watching the ember die on the wet pavement. His phone is warm in his hand, maybe the only warm thing for miles. He stares at the messages again, the stupid time stamps. This quiet inventory of Hudson’s absence. Some small part of him considers typing, shooting out a message. Reaching out. But he perishes the thought before it could really become anything. One of the harsh truths he’s come to realize is that he doesn’t know, anymore, how to reach out to Hudson. Doesn’t know how to bridge this gap between them without sounding like he’s pleading. And Connor’s never really begged for anything in his life, ever. He won’t start now, especially when he doesn’t even know what he’d be begging for.
“When I went to Vancouver, I went to visit Hudson for a week. I didn’t realize it, but from LA to Vancouver, it’s like two hours and 300 bucks, so I’m going there all the time now. We knew we wanted to get a little tattoo together, just to commemorate our connection and being on the show because it’s pretty momentous for us both.”
Connor Storrie about Hudson Williams, “This Pre-Fame Heated Rivalry Interview With Hudson Williams and Connor Storrie Feels Like A Time Capsule.” 2026
When Connor was working as a server, all those months ago, having just sent in his headshots and audition tape for the Heated Rivalry casting call, he never really expected that it would end here, at the Golden Globes afterparty, smiling until his cheeks hurt and nodding through conversations he probably won’t remember tomorrow.
The room is entirely too bright, and Connor feels almost like he’s part of the decor with the way that everyone’s been gawking at him. Which, he realizes, isn’t really as bad considering there’s also people who keep wanting to touch him, which then makes him feel less like decor and more like a piece of meat. Nikki Glaser had joked about it earlier, somewhat. The shiny new stars of Heated Rivalry. Everyone wants a piece of him, of them, and they’re making it known. Hollywood’s shiniest, newest toys. Presenting had been easy: walking out, playing their bit, reading the lines at the teleprompter and hitting all the marks. Knowing that Hudson would be there, no matter what happens. This part he’s in now is a blur of liquor and hands on shoulders and voices that all start to sound the same and oddly grating after a while.
He weaves through celebrities until he finds Hudson near the bar, nursing a drink in his hand, his white coat already slung over his right shoulder like he’s ready to bolt at any minute. An observation which is proven to be true, immediately, when Hudson sees him and says: “You wanna get out of here?”
Connor doesn’t even hesitate. He just nods, downs his own drink in one go, and then makes a run for it with Hudson. They don’t tell anyone anything. They don’t even make it to the front exit; they just slip through the side door and text their managers that they’ll be okay and will head back to the hotel soon, laughing and shoving each other with their elbows the whole time.
The car ride back looks like this: Connor turning towards Hudson and blurting out “How fucking surreal was that?” and Hudson laughing, breathy and disbelieving, replying “I can’t believe this is our lives now,” and then they’re just bouncing giggles back and forth like the world around them would disappear if they don’t keep their laughter in the air long enough. The taxi driver turning the music up a bit, Los Angeles sliding by in streaks of neon. Connor’s hand ends up on Hudson’s thigh without either of them making a big deal about it, because somehow throughout all of this, across the months that they’ve known each other for, he’s managed to carve a space for it there. Hudson, resting his forehead against the glass, watching the lights. Connor, watching him—his soft face, how beautiful he is when he’s not performing anything at all. The wanting is quiet when it comes, absolute when it knocks on his heart. Connor never, ever wants to leave.
“I don’t think people could have the sort of on-screen chemistry that Hudson and I have without genuinely embracing each other in real life and really feeling seen and heard and safe.”
Connor Storrie about Hudson Williams, The Today Show, 2026
He only opens his calendar because he’s avoiding answering a pretty overwhelming email, which feels like a very reasonable life choice. He scrolls, and scrolls, and scrolls, bored to death until something catches his eyes, looking really wrong against the mess of color-coded blocks of schedules slotted together like Tetris pieces—a blank space, empty and clean. A whole week off in March. He stares at it, then zooms in, and then zooms out, then stares at it again like a trick of the light that might disappear if he looks hard enough. But it’s still there, no matter which angle he looks.
Connor’s laptop is open before he could think about it too much, looking up at flights to Vancouver. He clicks one, closes it, then clicks another. The little plane icon looks stupidly hopeful, but he’s probably imagining things. He closes the calendar on his phone and then opens his messages.
Guess who accidentally found a whole week off next month
(hint: it’s me, i’m the guess who)
He sets his phone down, then picks it up again immediately. He refreshes the page on his laptop: one flight changes its price by five dollars, but he doesn’t mind. The phone buzzes.
Huddy (Shane)
Wow look at you and your work-life balance.
Amazing
Finally bullied your schedule into submission?
Connor smiles.
Yup.
I’m a very intimidating person. You know this.
I always win.
Terrifying, truly.
Happy for you.
Connor exhales, loudly and through his mouth. He opens his calendar again, afraid that he might have just hallucinated the whole thing after all. He didn’t. The empty week stares right back at him, still there. He closes his eyes, swears that he could almost see the layout of Hudson’s apartment. The potted plant by the window sill. Those board games under the coffee table that they never manage to touch whenever he’s there because they’re always too busy moving around and doing other things.
Anyway, I was looking at my calendar and...
I might actually be free from March 15 to 22.
Hudson is typing on the other end, a bubble showing up before it goes away. Then shows up again. Then nothing. That’s fine. Hudson is probably busy. The long lull in between shooting Heated Rivalry’s seasons means that they both get swamped going through offers and reading through scripts sent in by directors who, somehow, over a year in, seem to still want to cast them in things. Connor clicks into another flight, two nights before his full week off starts, and starts doing the math in his head: what schedules he could rearrange so maybe he could stay longer, what meeting he could cancel, how annoying it would be to take a red-eye and how little he actually cares.
I was thinking maybe I could come by?
We could finally go to Gros Morne, LOL
Connor stares at the thread like it might summon a response faster. But no bubble shows up so Hudson isn’t even typing. Maybe he’s not holding his phone, he thinks. So he turns his attention back to the flights, pretending a little that he’s just comparing prices when, in his heart, he knows that he’s already making all these plans in his head. They’ll spend two days in Vancouver, and then they’ll fly out to Newfoundland, and then maybe they’ll spend the rest of the week there or—
Sorry, I won’t be there that week.
That’s it. Just that. One cleanly constructed sentence without so much as a follow up. No softener or explanation, no “maybe another time.” Connor almost couldn’t believe his eyes, but no amount of blinking has rearranged the words into something kinder. More favorable. Nothing changes. He doesn’t know why he expected anything different. The flight tab gets closed quickly, then his laptop just as fast, as if doing so would make it all hurt less. Make the rejection go away. But it all sticks too much like a stain, skin-crawlingly awful, the world suddenly so wrong it feels like it would never right itself again.
“Hudson is my best friend, and I literally can’t fathom doing this without him. We were both in similar places in life before this. We quit our jobs within a day of each other. We booked this and flew out the same day. Now it’s turning into two people who are being seen internationally for the first time. This has been the highlight of my life, and meeting Hudson makes that ten times sweeter.”
Connor Storrie about Hudson Williams, “Connor Storrie on the Heated Rivalry Finale and Playing TV’s Grumpiest Romantic”, 2025
Connor had told him, once, after the piece with Wonderland dropped, that he wanted to be the one to interview Hudson next. Hudson had joked and said he doesn’t know if a repeat will ever come, but then promised that if it ever does, he’ll make sure that they call Connor first.
That was then, of course. ‘Now’ is a different thing altogether. ‘Now’ has Connor thinking about how Wonderland’s Summer 2027 print is heavier than he expects it to be when he sets it down the table, glossy and pristine and smelling like ink and cardboard from the box it came in. It was bought on impulse, partially out of shock and entirely out of curiosity, though he can’t really pin down what it is that he’s hoping to find when he opens it. Proof, maybe. Of something or other.
But his fingers don’t turn the pages yet. No, he just stares at the copy, at Hudson’s face on the cover—a black and white headshot that’s a complete 180 from his first interview. He traces the line of his jaw with his thumb, closes his eyes and tries to imagine the real thing, the real feeling. His brain can’t conjure it up. It brings up the promise, instead. Remembers how easily it all fell from Hudson’s lips, how it quickly found the soft spot in his chest and made its home there. How little it all matters now, with Sophie’s name printed in bold at the byline, this second interview happening without him knowing. When did Hudson start keeping things from him?
That’s kind of mean
You promised
You said to me
I thought you were going to
Were you really not in Vancouver when I asked or
I used to
Do you even still read these? Or am I just
I miss you. I miss you so much.
What did I do wrong?
Fuck you.Got my copy of the mag. Loved the interview!
Huddy (Shane)
Read 3:19 AM
One day, Connor is going to look back on these series of moments and realize that it’s the beginning of the end: they’re standing in the hallway outside their rooms in Venice, the ugly carpet swallowing the sounds of their breathing, tomorrow already waiting for them in the shape of Feltre and the burning Olympic fire. Hudson, tucking a cigarette behind his ear in the way that used to be Connor’s first, a habit he didn’t notice had been stolen until it’s already Hudson’s. That same beautiful, insufferable, bright thing of a man holding his hand out and asking Connor if he wants to come to his room, and Connor’s first instinct is to say yes, the word already crowding in his mouth, at the top of his tongue. But then he doesn’t say it. Instead, he talks about François and Paris and their plans, says he needs to make a call, hates how pathetic it sounds even though it’s the truth. The minute tick in Hudson’s jaw. The quick nod. The way he turns his head away and they stand there, the air around them feeling thick with wrongness all of a sudden until Hudson finally breaks, says goodnight, and then disappears. Connor, in the morning, learning that Hudson left for Feltre ahead of time. Without telling him. Without him.
One day, definitely. But today won’t be that day.
MG: And how did it feel, stepping back as Ilya Rozanov?
CS: Weird, but in a good way. It was—there was no discomfort there, for sure. I think Hudson has spoken about this but it really is like slipping into an old coat. Like my hair gets styled and the Russian accent slips back in, and suddenly there’s no Connor Storrie in the room anymore. But it’s also harder, definitely.
MG: How so?
CS: It’s—I mean, at the point of filming season two you already know the characters better, right? And most of us in that set can’t hide behind first season nerves anymore, especially Hudson and I, and with me specifically with Ilya’s accent and Ilya’s backstory and his… well, no spoilers, but you get what I mean. There’s this requirement, mostly self-imposed, to go deeper and bolder with the choices I make for my character. A lot of it this time around is asking how much are we going to give to the audience and how much are we going to leave up to interpretation.
MG: You’ve also got some new faces in the cast this season. How’s that been like?
CS: Really fun, actually. Made some new friends, hung out with a lot of people. It definitely—I mean, there’s also some people who didn’t return for season two, what with Ilya being in a new team—I can say that! That’s not a spoiler! But… yeah. They’re all great, really. One good thing about the casting is that, and this is something that I’ll always be grateful for, they really try to look for new faces. So a lot of the guys are really hungry for it, and mostly terrified, which really reminded me of how I was like back in season one. But they’re all good. It’s good. I can’t wait for everyone to meet them.
Connor lies on his back, rubbing the sleep from the corner of his left eye, staring at the ceiling and all its cracks. The sun has barely risen, a thin blue light slipping through the curtains and making everything around him look hazy, blurry, like he’s inside a dream he can’t quite remember. That would be preferable, maybe, if only to wipe the idea of Vancouver in his mind.
It’s been drifting there a lot lately. His body in Los Angeles but his thoughts somewhere in an apartment in Canada. So fucking persistent, but it’s his fault for entertaining it. He turns, facing the window, and tries to picture Hudson there. Is he asleep, or already awake? If he was asleep, what was he dreaming about? If he was awake, was he already moving through his small rituals? Coffee first, a fifteen minute stretch, checking his phone with that little frown of concentration he has even though he’s not reading anything bad or offensive. Connor wonders if this routine is still the same, or if it’s changed. He imagines Hudson by the window, or at the counter, or tying his shoes, and every version of him feels both perfectly clear and completely out of reach. Like the memory of a dream that’s rearranging itself. It’s strange, and it’s not the first time he’s thought about this, but it really is strange—all these ways that Hudson has grown without him, out of sight and out of his hands.
“I love you. I don’t want to do everything with you.” Connor had understood it, at the time, back when it actually made sense. Healthy, even, especially for two young actors at the start of their careers. But then not doing everything led to not doing this, or that, and then not doing much of anything at all. And Connor would do anything to take it all back, really. Knowing now that Hudson giving him space meant losing him in it.
MG: Let’s talk about production for a second. I heard that you finally have a bigger budget?
CS: Oh my God. Kind of? Sort of? Allegedly.
MG: Allegedly
CS: I mean, it felt bigger. We had slightly fancier coffee the whole time, if that’s worth anything. That’s the real marker for success.
MG: Did a bigger budget change how it felt on set?
CS: A little. There’s more ambition, I think. We got to try things we couldn’t before—bigger locations. Actual locations, definitely, instead of just relying on those giant screens. More complicated set-ups. We got to stay in sets longer too. But at the end of the day, it’s still very much about the characters and their relationships with each other. You can’t throw money at that and hope it works. So it really still has to rely on chemistry. The emotional build-up that all our fans and, well, me too, I would say, really invest in.
Connor’s not proud of it—and it’s almost somewhat humiliating—if the way his fingers shake while looking for Hudson’s contact number is any indicator. But he’d had wine during dinner with friends, which turned into a couple of beers, which then turned into a few cocktails until he’s finally standing on the sidewalk outside the bar, some distance away, sniffling and shivering against the cold, waiting for the dial tone to end.
He has no reason to call, not really. Or, maybe, a better way to put that is that he has all these reasons to call, but there’s no reason for him to expect anyone to pick up from the other side. Every ring that finishes without anyone answering almost feels too loud, even with the sounds of the city and the pounding of the music from the bar. This is stupid, he thinks, and it’s not for the first time in the past couple of minutes. I should just hang up, pretend this never happened. If he calls in the morning, I could just say I was drunk.
But then: “Hello?”
Hudson’s voice is rough, sleep-heavy. Connor lets out a broken little laugh. “Hey. I—sorry. Were you sleeping?”
There’s a pause, a rustle, and then the sound of someone sitting up. “Connor? I—it’s five in the morning.”
“Five in… Huddy, where are you?”
“Milan.”
Connor didn’t even know that. “Oh. I didn’t—uh. I didn’t know you were there.”
“Where did you think I was?”
“Vancouver? I don’t know. Somewhere that isn’t six hours ahead of me, apparently,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m outside a bar. I’m… I don’t know.”
“I can tell,” Hudson replies, and there’s a ghost of a smile in the tone. If Connor closes his eyes, he knows he’d be able to picture the look on his face perfectly, like he was standing in front of him. So he doesn’t close them.
“Yeah.”
“Is… I mean, why are you calling?”
Connor turns around. Looks at the sidewalk, then at his shoes, then at the reflection of his own tired face in some dark window. He thinks about how easy it used to be to just say things. “I wanted to ask how you’re doing.”
A pause. “I’m fine,” Hudson replies, soft. “I’m okay. Jet-lagged, a little. I have an early morning shoot tomorrow. Or, later, actually. You?”
He almost feels guilty for calling, now, but Connor can’t find it in him to care. “I’m kind of drunk,” he admits. “Really cold.”
“Then you shouldn’t be outside, probably. Go back home, Connor. Or wherever you’re staying.”
Connie, he wants to say. When has it ever been Connor? You don’t call me by my name. Why start now? “In a while, I will,” is what he eventually settles on. A lie. No matter where this conversation is going to end, Connor knows it won’t lead him back to his hotel.
An uncomfortable silence settles in between them, which leaves Connor at the mercy of his own thoughts. Did Hudson ever anticipate that it would be like this? Some two years ago now, sharing apartments and sharing lives, watching the ink settle beneath their skins. Did he ever look at Connor and think ‘someday, when all this is over, we’d be acting like we’re strangers again.’ But they’ve never really been strangers to each other. Sometimes, when it doesn’t hurt to think about, Connor likes to imagine that he’s known Hudson for his whole life. That he’s never really known a life without Hudson in it.
“Connor,” Hudson says, pulling him back up, “I’m… look, I’m really tired. I just—why did you call? Did you need something?”
He opens his mouth, and then closes it. There are a dozen words lined up behind his teeth, begging to be released. I’m sorry. I should be with you. I should have fought harder. That night, in Venice, I should have said yes. I think about you all the time. I love you. I should have said yes. I should have said yes. I should have— “I miss you,” he whispers, and then hates himself. How insignificant it all sounds compared to the magnitude of what he feels.
There’s nothing on the other end, so quiet that he thinks Hudson has maybe ended the call, but Connor knows he hasn’t because of the slight waver in Hudson’s breathing on the other end, barely perceptible but Connor knows. Connor will always know. Part of him wants to take it back. Say nevermind and play it off like some drunken rambling. A joke. Save them both the trouble.
But then Hudson, quietly, breathes “I miss you too.” And it’s so awful, how the world still turns after that.
MG: What are you most excited for the fans to see this season?
CS: The evolution of Shane and Ilya, definitely. It’s still the same show, same two characters, but they’ve grown up. And so the choices cost more, the wins mean a lot more, and the losses hurt more. And I think that’s where it really gets interesting.
MG: Speaking of Shane, how was it coming back on set with Hudson?
CS: Uh… it’s—I mean, it’s really good. Hudson is really good. Amazing. The chemistry was still there, like we never really left the set. And it’s still so… easy. To work with him. I’ve said this before, multiple times, but it’s really nice to play Ilya beside someone who plays Shane with so much seriousness, really investing his whole self into the role. It just makes things smoother. And… yeah, there’s really nothing more to it. I felt eternally lucky to have that—have him across from me everyday.
MG: So just as intense, just as good as the beginning?
CS: Definitely. Intense, but good. I mean, it’s not perfect. There were definitely hundreds of imperfect moments—stumbling over lines, takes where we tried to hit something emotional but it didn’t work, or I got too caught up… But Hudson held it together, you know? He made everything feel right.
Connor stays where he is after Hudson leaves the balcony, the cold creeping back in now that he’s gone, filling the space where he used to stand. The remainder of his cigarette is still there on the concrete, a small and stupid thing crushed beneath Hudson’s boot, already finished. The telltale smell of smoke isn’t even there anymore.
He bends and picks it up, moving in a half-possessed sort of way, like his body has transmitted a signal that didn’t come from his brain, then moved his body without his consent. The paper is soft and ruined, pinched carefully between his pointer and his thumb, and before he can talk himself out of it he slips it into his pocket, not minding the fact that he’s going to ruin the inner lining. Who’d care, anyway? Not him. He keeps his hand closed around it, curled lightly around the dead thing.
Would it be weird to put it in my mouth? Connor thinks, almost derisively. Beyond weird, that would be disgusting. Chasing a feeling that isn’t there anymore. But his brain betrays him anyway, entertains the idea of it—would he feel Hudson’s lips? The echo of them, a ghost of warmth where there shouldn’t be any. He knows he won’t of course, knows it wouldn’t feel or taste like anything except dirt and ash, but he supposes the imprint of it would still satisfy him. Imagining what it would be like to share that kind of kiss, if it can stand in for the real thing. That would have to be enough. Connor knows he won’t ever taste it again. Not in any way that matters.
“I believe in the idea of soulmates. Not saying that you’re my only soulmate, but I do believe—I mean, I’ve had connections in my life where I’m like, ‘you’re part of just, me cosmically.’ And I genuinely believe that you are part of my soul family.”
Connor Storrie about Hudson Williams, “Heated Rivalry’s Connor Storrie and Hudson Williams Answer Rapid-Fire Questions | Cosmo Goes Deep” 2025