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Force equals mass times acceleration.
It was simple physics, no less simple when all 210 pounds of Jack Laurent Zimmerman hurtled into the boards at top speed, rapidly decelerating in collision with the glass. The rookie defender pressing him flat a split second later is just the cherry on top, knocking his helmet clean off as he crumples to the ice.
The impact is accompanied an unfortunate crunching sound, the sound of meat and bones slammed crushed into plexiglass and before the crowd can even let out a gasp of horror all of Jack Zimmerman has crumpled to the ice, unmoving aside from a faint twitch seizing his body.
myraonice - follow
you know Carl Stein maybe the Falcs would have an easier time on—- shit post cancelled
#sorry to pause your usual bitching but zimmerman just went down #fuck #falcs lb
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luckofthedraw - follow
You know, it's probably a good thing our in-arena music folks have gotten a bit less gutsy. The last guy probably would have just played Timber by Pitbull and Ke$ha
#too soon? maybe #but i will say i did appreciate the reliance on rumour has it whenever one of our trades' old teams came to town #that was iconic i fear #aces lb
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drydendeez - follow
Yes ESPN let's show Jack Zimmerman getting the everliving daylights knocked out of him from all of the angles. Surely we needed to see his neck snap back yet again. In slow motion too.
#not to state the obvious but that looked. really bad. #he was like a bag of bricks to the ice #falcs lb
If it were anyone else Kent might glide forward, pull Lynch away before a Falc can get it in their head to take vengeance for their captain, but instead he feels that his skates have sunk into the ice like quicksand— the rest of him soon to follow as he watches in horror.
He can feel Jeff at his shoulder— though he wouldn't call it feeling when the sensation hardly registers, his field of vision narrowing too a single point— pawing at his jersey, but there's nothing to hold him back from. Kent can't even move.
There's an ache in his chest, dull at first and then piercing, and if he hadn't spent the last four years in Vegas mastering self control in front of the hounding public he might let out a low keening sound, somewhere between a sob and what a wounded animal would sound like. Instead he bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood and lets Jeff push him towards the bench like he's an oversized skating aid, just as stiff as those stupid plastic penguins.
Cherry Pie For Everyone
@cartwrights23
Not sure if it's coming through on the broadcast, but T-Mobile is dead silent right now. Like someone's kid started crying and I swear 3,000 people shot a dirty look. You can hear a pin drop
Objects in motion stay in motion and Kent's been in motion ever since he landed in Las Vegas and realized he held the future of the young team in his hands. He'd always been quick on the ice, avoiding any heavy hits through speed and sheer force of will, and it wasn't so hard to let that bleed over into everything else. After all, the NHL was all-consuming if you let it be and Kent was entirely willing to hand himself over, had been at seventeen and wasn't stopping now.
They'd gone all the way to the end of the line that very first season, the seventh game of the finals and yet when Kent had sunk the overtime winning goal he'd had a moment of panic, of having nowhere else to go, nothing else to reach. That dread hadn't left him, not as he'd hoisted the cup over his head with arms so shaky he's surprised he hadn't dropped it, shoving it into Jeff's hands as soon as he could manage.
It'd been Jeff sent after him to Upstate New York, home, after his prolonged summer of radio silence, probably making sure the Aces' top investment hadn't gone the way of Jack Zimmerman. He isn't sure how Jeff had found him at the lake, which of his cousins had ratted him out. He did learn that Jeff was better than him at skipping rocks which just seemed fitting at that point.
parsonpurrson - follow
Listen I know we probably shouldn't show film of the guy half-dead on the ice but I feel like the zoom on Parson's face is almost worse. Like you can tell that man is disassociating to hell in back show someone's fat baby instead please
#aces lb #kent parson
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quackers - follow
i ask for zimmerman/parson crumbs this fine Aces Falcs game and this is what i get. never trusting a monkey's paw again
#0190 #aces lb #hrpf #← for your lovely little blocklists
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myraonice - follow
I don't go there but why the hell is Parson's A talking down Lynch after he tried to do a manslaughter, that feels like something a captain should do
#aces lb
Jack hasn't gotten up. Kent is seventeen and twenty two all at the same time and he can hardly breathe, hardly tear his gaze away from the flood of trainers surrounding one Jack Zimmerman. The coaches are saying… something to him. Or are they drawing up a play for the inevitable penalty kill? Kent isn't sure and he can hardly focus his vision in the first place much less pay attention to the clipboard
Lynch is apologizing to anyone who will listen, and Kent should be next to him as his Captain, telling him that bad hits happen and he hadn't meant any harm, but instead his knees have locked out and he can't seem to hold onto his stick, fumbling it with numb fingers in gloves that hinder more than help.
Marril, the lead trainer, is sending frantic hand signals to the tunnel and Kent's pregame meal is threatening to make a reappearance on the ice. If Kent weren't already leaning on the boards, he might have pitched forward, letting gravity finish the job. He's always run hot on the ice, producing more body heat than the ice could sap away, but now gooseflesh prickles up his spine and his teeth would chatter if not for his clenched jaw.
T-Mobile Arena is the coldest it's ever been and he watches as a groggy Jack Zimmerman is helped onto a stretcher— Jack (Worse than Zimmerman, better than Zimms) weakly fighting the help , struggling up before succumbing to inertia. It'd be endearing that he's stubborn as ever if not for the visibly worry radiating off of the medical staff, the cluster of medics waiting at the edge of the ice.
There's a hum building beyond the glass, somewhere between sympathy and impatience, and Kent can only be glad it's the third period, that there's a finite amount of time until he can get the sticky feeling off his skin, scalding water better than undue shame.
Of course the limited time on the clock doesn't stop Mashkov once they start back up— Kent's first shift he's pinned into the glass behind his own net, puck wedged between his skate and the base of the boards. He doesn't have to turn to know it's the Falcs second A, he's seen Mashkov making eyes at him, narrowed into slits, and has been too busy trying to stay upright and not make a right and proper fool of himself than to bother entertaining the onesided grudge.
It's something in the magnetism of the game, someone always deciding to make themselves his problem. Some nights he'll bait the poor schmuck trying to play David, but whatever patience he might have had left just as surely as the breath from Jack Zimmerman's lungs in the collision. He can feel the butt of Mashkov's stick digging into the soft spot below the back of his ribs and if it weren't as close a game as it was he'd push back, puck be damned.
"I see you're teaching them well in Vegas." Mashkov is breathy and pointed; it's not the wittiest Kent's heard but he still feels a flash of anger, righteous indignation at the implications.
"Maybe you should make sure your captain keeps his head up skating instead of blaming my rookies," Kent hisses back, lucky that the puck squirts away before Mashkov can shove him again.
No fights break out, and Lynch has been relegated to the bench, likely to prevent headhunting. Kent should be checking in when he's on the bench, reassuring the kid that it isn't his fault, but each shift leaves him more frazzled than the last, exhausted like the first skating session of preseason.
He hardly even remembers the postgame routine that night, stumbling through the terse line of handshakes without meeting a single eye. The fans might as well be transparent for all he sees them beyond the glass, ears deaf to their cheers. They win, but Kent can hardly remember the score, not his contributions to the stat sheet much less anyone's around him. He should do something, linger behind and ask after Jack, but instead he's dragging his skate guards on the concrete in the tunnel, helmet not even off.
There's a camera snapping somewhere and it's all Kent can do to keep moving, keep heading towards the locker room.
parsonpurrson - follow
f*lcs can't even let us have a feel good win
# this is not serious but also it is #no i can't celebrate erring's goal because z*mmerman decided to try and get himself killed #lynch it is not your fault it was an accident baby #aces lb
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Leonard Hart
@leonotdavinci
Sources are telling me Zimmerman has been admitted to Las Vegas General and is lucid if not a bit groggy. Early estimates say he'll have a nasty concussion but no lasting damage
Maybe it's continuation of the Aces' media policy from his rookie year, keeping him as far away from anything remotely close to Jack as possible, only Jeff and Forster are tapped for the post game press conference.
Peeling off his gear is ritual at this point, but Kent's fingers are slow and clumsy, straps digging into his skin as he tries to pry them off. A shower should clear his head but all the scalding water does is turn his skin a bright ugly red.
Kent knows where he's going before he even gets behind the wheel of his car; Kit can wait on her dinner and it's not even as if Las Vegas General is too far out of his way. He likes the city at night, or at least he does when he can't hear his own uneven pulse in his ears, feeling as if he's run bag skates for hours with blood rushing under his skin.
By the time he's managed to smile and autograph his way past reception, the pit that's been growing in his stomach is threatening to bore him through the floor, normal force be damned. He wishes he'd thought to get dinner, even if it was just a crushed protein bar from the middle console of his car, but it's probably best not to have anything that could come up with how his gut is twisting.
The triage nurse is not so easily won over, but there must be something in the way his voice breaks asking to see Jack Zimmerman that she slips him a room number and tells him to not make a nuisance of himself. He expects to run into a player from the Falcs, Mashkov maybe or Snowy, but there's no one he recognizes as he traces down the hall, pressing into the side as to avoid getting in the way.
Inside the hospital, there's no sign of the lights or glamour of Las Vegas, just long sterile hallways and a damnable beeping. He could be in any other city, could be back home waiting for his mom to finish a shift or in Montreal, waiting for an invitation back that would never come.
It was almost like a hotel that way— Kent would never feel settled no matter how used to it he was and it seemed to blur into it's own dimension, not a part of any city, not truly.
There's a hustle to the hall, folks in scrubs darting about with a sense of purpose, and they simply move around him, like he's a rock diverting the flow of a stream for a brief moment before it can return to it's original path. There's something hypnotic in the steady flow, and Kent catches himself slowing down to watch as he approachs Jack's hall. Gravity may have gotten him here, but hell if he wasn't going to fight it.
He might be stalling, but he shouldn't be here in the first place and if he can't talk himself out of it he might as well delay the inevitable. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he might pick it up if his fingers didn't feel so shaky. The door to the room is ajar and his breath catches in his throat as he spots Jack.
It should make him feel better that Jack's sitting upright of his own volition, even with squinty eyes in the dim light, but he looks so miserable Kent regrets coming all over again. After all, he's likely the last person Jack wants to see.
valedictoria - follow
> be me
>be having the worst day of your life (partial blindness and paralyzation in my left arm)
>hear a commotion in the hall, ask beloved partner what is going on
>apparently a hockey player named kent parson walked by????? and signed some kids iv bag???????
>start miraculously getting better
>the doctors might discharge me tomorrow
#anyway i might start watching hockey for the healing powers of kent parson? #is he any good? #hockey mutuals help #if you exist #also yes i'm fine probably #feeling much better if not weirded out #←plus i could write this so
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valedictoria - follow
i am being told kent parson is in fact "any good"
#shoutout to liz for calling him hockey jesus i guess #also you can stop reblogging my first post please
He hovers too long in the doorway, long enought for Jack to spot him, turning stiffly and suppressing a wince at the movement. Kent can't help but feel his own ribs twinge in sympathy; he'd broken two his rookie season in a game against the Stars and that'd been practically nothing compared to the knocking Jack had taken tonight. He'd been on his feet the next week, but Jack would be lucky if he was in skates within the month.
He wishes Jack would look away, instead his pale blue eyes bore into Kent, glinting with the light from the hallway, pupils dilated. Kent braces himself to be yelled at, told to leave, anything, but Jack only works his jaw, turning away and leaning back.
"You might as well come in." Jack's voice is hoarse and it takes Kent a moment to force his body to comply, stepping over the threshhold. The room smells of cleaning solution and stale air. Kent's eyes slowly adjust to the dimness, moving so that the door is only halfway open.
Jack's gaze is still fixed on the wall opposite of his bed, as if he can see much of anything. There's a faint furrow in his brow, a crease that's only deepened in the time spent away from Kent. His hair is still plastered to his forehead, a few strands sticking out every which way.
It reminds Kent of the cowlicks he'd born waking up, and in the darkness Kent can almost pretend they're teenagers again, sitting in a different hospital, hundreds of miles away. Of course he'd never gotten that far, he'd been turned away by nurses and then the Zimmermans themselves, not that they bothered to look him in the eye.
Jack's older, they both are.
Time marches onward but Kent's never been good at letting go.
stella901 - follow
!!!! what do you mean kent is visiting jack at the hospital !!!!
#brittany on twitter he is not just "a good captain and a standup player all around" HE IS IN LOVE WITH THAT MAN #hrpf # (for blacklist purposes sorry sal)
The window in the room breaks the illusion of a separate existence from Las Vegas, but a haze has settled over the city, threat of a rainy weekend finally coming to fruition. The colorful lights feel muted as compared to usual, Kent doesn't feel his normal burst of pride in seeing his city.
Any questions he might work himself up to ask vanish off his tongue as Jack's phone buzzes once, then twice. Jack makes no motion to check it, but his fingers faintly tighten over the sheets of the hotel bed.
Kent peers over because he's nosy, expecting one of the Falcs coming to pick Jack up, but instead there's two texts, one from someone named Eric Bittle, another from someone simply titled Shitty. He relays as such to Jack and is surprised that the normal name of the pair draws more of a grimace than the insult.
"Shitty, huh?"
Jack's smile is ghost, darting over his face before vanishing entirely. "College friend. I'm surprised he even saw the game. Should be studying."
"Good friend?"
Jack nods without elaboration. The silence should be suffocating but instead there's a resonance in Kent's chest, the foolish feeling of something being finally right. He hardly even hears the sounds of the hospital behind the door, only the faint whirring of machinery. The rising and falling of Jack's chest is almost steady, breath catching each time he inhales too deeply.
"So. Have you come to tell me I should have kept my head up?"
If Kent didn't know Jack any better, he might have said it was a joke. Instead he only shrugs. "Maybe. Lynch should have too. But he was the bigger train."
Jack shuts his eyes. "You'd say the same if Tater sent you into the boards?"
"Mashkov would have to catch me first."
Jack can't seem to find an argument with that, eyes shut and leaning back. Kent glances at the door, sensing a rapidly approaching end to this harebrained shot; Jack doesn't even look at him, simply clearing his throat. "Next game. San Jose. What should the boys look for?"
"You don't want me to go?" Kent shouldn't even ask, but he can't help the genuine surprise leaking into his voice.
Jack looks at him again, really looks at him. After a moment, his brow softens and Kent feels the knot in his gut loosen. "Can't have any of the good painkillers. Might as well get your take on a division team."
"The Sharks?"
"You're the one who said any team can win any night."
"Quoting a training camp presser?"
Jack doesn't bother with an answer, still watching him. After a moment, Kent relents.
"Fine. But only if you'll give me a scouting report on the Bruins when we're up there next month."
Jack's shoulders drop away and if Kent were foolish enough he might think Jack looks nearly content.
"Deal."
So for the night, Kent joins the tourists on the casino floors, the executives trying to close deals, and he lets himself hope in the city of dreams.