When I first read the Financial Times article about female ice hockey fans, I had to pause halfway through. As a Nottingham Panthers supporter, I felt an immediate sting – not because I was surprised, but because I was tired. Tired of seeing women’s genuine love for sport reduced to something superficial or sexualised.

The suggestion that women are only in the stands because of romance novels like Icebreaker felt like an insult dressed as curiosity – as though the only reason we show up on cold Sunday nights is because we once read about a fictional hockey player who made us swoon.

For me, any of the sports I’ve enjoyed has never been because I’m in love with the athletes. It’s about being part of a unified crowd, watching last-minute performances bring joy across a stadium, and being able to taste the celebration in the air. None of that has ever belonged to fiction. It belongs to us – to the fans.

And yet, pieces like this remind me how fandom is still divided by gender.

Men are often assumed to be born fans – their knowledge innate, their enthusiasm legitimate. Women, by contrast, are asked to prove it. We’re tested on rules, line-ups, and transfer windows. Our motives are questioned. If we care too loudly, we’re “fangirls.” If we’re quiet, we’re “not really into it.” Somehow, there’s no right way to exist in the stands as a woman.

I’ve seen this play out not just in hockey, but also in motorsport and rugby. At university, I was president of the F1 society, and I lost count of how many young women told me they hesitated to join because they didn’t want to be labelled “Drive to Survive fans.” That phrase – tossed out with a smirk – became shorthand for “you don’t belong.” It didn’t matter if they could break down tyre strategy or recall historic rivalries; the assumption was that their interest started with a Netflix show, and therefore wasn’t real.

What frustrates me most is that male fans are never policed this way. No one questions if they started watching football because of FIFA, or followed cycling after the Tour de France: Unchained. For them, curiosity is celebrated as a gateway to passion. For us, it’s suspicion.

That’s the double standard at the heart of fandom’s gender divide. Women aren’t allowed to be fans. We must justify, defend, or sanitise our enthusiasm. And when mainstream outlets like the Financial Times reinforce those ideas – even unintentionally – it ripples through every corner of fan culture. It tells women, again, that our place here is conditional.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve sat in an arena surrounded by women who know every penalty call, every player stat, every line change, and thought: if only the people writing about us could see this. The laughter, the nerves, the knowledge, the years of loyalty. If only they could understand that we aren’t here by accident, or by chapter. We are here because we choose to be.

I have to admit that books like Throttled or Icebreaker make me deeply uncomfortable. But they’re not aimed at me – I don’t read romance at the best of times anyway. But no sports fan who reads romance books about their sport is any less of a fan.

Yes, some fans may have discovered hockey through Icebreaker or F1 through Drive to Survive. But that’s not a flaw: it’s a feature of modern fandom. Stories draw us in; sport keeps us here. Entry points don’t determine authenticity. Dedication does.

The backlash to the Financial Times piece erupted as clubs and fans publicly defended female supporters and celebrated their dedication. Nottingham Panthers, Glasgow Clan, and other EIHL teams issued statements praising their female fanbase, while forums and social media flooded with women sharing their experiences. Women are visible, vocal and we will not be ignored.

So if you’re a woman reading this, wondering if you belong, here’s your answer: you do. You belong because you care. Because you show up, week after week, heart on your sleeve. You belong because you love the game – not the version someone else imagined for you, but the one you’ve made your own.

And that love is as real as it gets.