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jordan @hockeybutts
so do we know if that zimmerman/falconers thing is legit? #ProvidenceFalconers

fight me @hellsqueen
@hockeybutts looks like it. surprised he didn’t go for the aces tho. or the bruins. or, y’know. anyone else.

fight me @hellsqueen
@hockeybutts lbr, looks like EVERYONE was after that ass

the drama llama @howlinginside
@hellsqueen @hockeybutts lol, are u surprised? JUST LOOK AT THAT ASS

the drama llama @howlinginside
@hellsqueen @hockeybutts real talk tho this is not the worst team he could’ve signed with. they went to the playoffs last year

jordan @hockeybutts
@howlinginside @hellsqueen ye, but he could’ve signed with a more established team. idk tho. you do you, zimmermann, i guess

fight me @hellsqueen
@hockeybutts @howlinginside how pissed will parse be tho. we all know why he went all the way to samwell back in december

the drama llama @howlinginside
@hellsqueen @hockeybutts lmao u think he was poaching?

fight me @hellsqueen
@howlinginside @hockeybutts either that or _goss is right and they are/were fucking

jordan @hockeybutts
@hellsqueen @howlinginside tbh _goss thinks everyone is fucking


The Providence Falconers @TheProvidenceFalconers
We are happy to announce that starting next season, #JackZimmermann will be joining our team. Looking forward to seeing you in Providence!


the ultimate sock (thecocksock) wrote in hockey_gossip

zimms vs technology, part five thousand


he deleted like a minute after it was posted, but, zimmy-boy, the internet is forever, you should know that by now. anyway, pressing questions: WHO IS THE MYSTERY BOY? WHAT IS GOING ON? WHY DOES HE HAVE SUCH CUTE EAR(S)? WHY IS HE SO BLOND? AND, MOST IMPORTANTLY, DOES JACK ZIMMERMANN HAVE A TYPE?

tags: adventures in instagram, fail fail fail, jack zimmermann, j.zimms patron saint of hockey butts, please please please ban all hockey players from using social media, technical difficulties please stand by, the ubiquitous kent parson tag


Reply from Anonymous
Lol, oh, Zimms, you never fail to fail <3 that’s what I love about you. You’d think the GM would tell him to keep this under wraps though.

Reply from Anonymous
Don’t you think they did? I mean, the weird composition in the photo and the almost-instant deletion would point to an accidental posting, but I can’t imagine they will be very happy with him anyway. They clearly want him to be the face of the franchise, and they know that nowadays you can’t discount the fangirls, and THEY all want to think they have a chance to fuck him, so they’ll have him bearding in no time at all and shoving all that heteronormativity down our throats. You know they already got rid of all evidence of his relationship with Parse back in the juniors, so they’re gonna sweep this one under the rug, too.

Reply from Anonymous
You know they already got rid of all evidence of his relationship with Parse back in the juniors, so they’re gonna sweep this one under the rug, too.
nonny, was there ever any substantial proof though? like, any concrete evidence aside from the rumor mill? what i’m trying to ask, i guess, is if there was even anything to sweep under the rug to begin with.

Reply from Anonymous
There were some photos of them acting very touchy-feely, and then there was some guy who swore he saw them making out at some party soon before the overdose and then arguing about something, followed by more making out (that’s why there was so much speculation that the overdose was related to their breakup, that Parse broke it off, and Zimms just couldn’t deal so he tried to kill himself—I mean, that’s not entirely impossible, especially given that they really haven’t talked to each other since). There were also some photos, but they were really blurry (though you could see how this COULD be Zimms and Parse), and then suddenly, after Parse went first in the draft, the guy told everyone and their mother that he was wrong and high to boot, and this never happened, and then the photos magically disappeared, too. So yeah, the GM have a history of sweeping things like that under the rug. Which, I have no doubt, will happen here, too, whoever that boy is.

Expand 57 comments


carthage reblogged mylittlecthulhu

that awkward moment when your fandom is being gross again about something horrific that happened to an actual, real person, and you just sit back, horrified and disgusted to be associated with those people

#do we really need to have that discussion again #i’m not even going to vagueblog about this #hockey fandom what is wrong with you #there’s shipping and then there’s this #stop #just #s t o p


Jack gets an Instagram account, because the Falconers PR people tell him they like their players to have online presence, and he prefers it over Twitter, which makes him anxious and jittery in a way he hasn’t really figured out. It’s actually Bitty who sets up the account and posts the first picture, one of Jack’s favorites, snapped on the roof of the Haus one evening, full of purple, and orange, and gold, the clouds backlit by the setting sun.

He captions it, almost goodbye.

It’s bittersweet, just like everything else these days, when time seems to stretch indefinitely just for Jack to discover suddenly that next month, next week, next day, he will be gone for good, that there is no going back. He knows this, he does, but now it seems like everything he does is a series of lasts, and there is something tight and aching in his chest, and sometimes he feels like he does right before a panic attack, like he’s not getting enough air.

Now, sitting on Bitty’s bed, looking at him scrolling through Jack’s photo folder, Jack does his best not to think about the packed boxes sitting in his almost empty room, because if he does, then it will become real.

It’s almost funny. All he ever wanted was to play hockey, to play in the NHL, to win the Cup. This—Samwell, the team, the Haus—was supposed to be just a detour, but now it feels more like a destination he failed to realize he’s already reached.

When Bitty hands him the phone back, he snaps the picture almost without thinking, without looking, and Bitty laughs softly at the failed photo of his ear. Jack saves it anyway.


His apartment in Providence is big, and tastefully furnished, and empty.

After years of living in an old, creaky house filled with people, the silence feels oppressive, and Jack turns the tv on, just to have some background noise to fill the void as does his evening set of push-ups and reheats the Thai take-out leftovers from yesterday.

The guys from the team have invited him to go out with them to a nearby pub, and even though Jack doesn’t feel like going, he hates the emptiness of his apartment even more.

The pub is crowded when he arrives, but not unbearably so, and Holtzy waves him over to their table in the back.

“Zimms, my man, I didn’t think you would actually show,” he says, slapping Jack on the shoulder as he sits down. “What’s your poison? Let me treat you, yeah?”

“I think I’ll stick with water,” Jack says, and an uncomfortable silence follows. Jack knows they know—everybody who’s even marginally interested in hockey knows all about the party boy Zimmermann, the prodigal son, the fucked-up kid who couldn’t quite make it even when he had everything handed to him on a silver platter. The truth is, though—the truth is, they don’t know anything.

“Sure thing, man,” Holtzy says, though, almost without missing a beat. “I’ll just wave over the waitress, mostly because you need to see the rack on her.”

“Unless you’re more of an ass man,” Schumer says, and he has no idea how close he is, and how far off the mark at the same time. “But Holtzy, here, is ready to start composing, like, a fucking sonnet to those tits. It’s tragic, really.”

Jack nurses his glass of water for what is probably a ridiculously long amount of time. He doesn’t talk a lot, mostly listens, drifting in and out of the conversation from time to time. They tease him about it, but it’s mostly gentle chirping, compared to his Samwell teammates. And the thing is—the thing is, Jack likes these guys, and he likes playing hockey with them, but now that the camp is over, he still sometimes looks over his shoulder and expects to see Ransom and Holster on the D-line. Expects to see Bitty on his left.

He’s just about to leave when his phone rings, and when he sees Bitty’s name on the caller ID, he immediately rushes outside to take it. As he walks to the door, he can hear the guys hollering after him.

“Hey,” he says, breathless, once he’s outside, and he leans against the brick wall, closes his eyes for a moment.

“Hey, Jack,” Bitty says on the other end of the line, and there’s something in his voice that Jack just can’t decipher, a strange sort of wistful sadness. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, no, I was just at a bar with some of the guys on the team. I think they’re trying to get the new players to bond with the rest of the team,” Jack answers, feeling for the rough brick with his left hand.

“Oh,” Bitty says in a breathy voice. “I shouldn’t keep you away, then, I can call some other time—”

“No, no, Bittle— Bitty, wait. I’m glad you called,” Jack admits, and he can’t help the smile that escapes. “What’s going on?”

There’s silence on the other end of the line, then, “It’s just, I don’t know. It’s so weird without you here. You and Shitty, I mean. Especially now that most of us are already back and settled in to fix up the Haus before the semester starts. Sometimes I go to knock on your door, and I’m so surprised when I see Nursey instead. And it’s nice to have the frogs at the Haus, but—”

“No, I understand,” Jack says. “Today at practice, I looked to my left, looking for you, and found Holtz instead. It was so strange for a moment. And my apartment is far too big for just one person.”

“Get yourself a cat, Jack Zimmermann,” Bitty tells him, laughing, but it sounds forced, off-beat, like he wanted to say something else but thought better of it.

Jack knows he shouldn’t, but he says it anyway.

“Maybe you could come visit me sometime.” It’s a bad idea, it’s so transparent, so obvious that Jack is cringing at himself on the inside, but he presses on. “I could show you around Providence, get us some ice time, just for the two of us. We could practice checking, would be just like the old times, eh?”

It’s not panic, exactly, which sneaks inside his chest when Bitty doesn’t answer for a moment. It’s not. Jack closes his hand into a fist.

“Yeah, Jack,” Bitty says finally. “I would love that.”

To his right, the door opens, and Schumer sticks his head out, then follows Jack outside.

“Dude, where the fuck have you fucked off to?” he asks.

Jack covers the receiver with his hand and gestures at Patrick silently. Schumer makes kissy noises at Jack’s phone.

“What if this was my dad, you asshole?” Jack asks, laughing quietly, the knot in his chest slowly dissolving.

“Dude, I would, like, gladly make out with Bad Bob Zimmermann. But since it’s not him, finish up this jerk-off session with your girlfriend and come back inside.”

Jack shoves him playfully. “I would say that can be arranged, but, Jesus, you’re disgusting. Go away. And that’s not my girlfriend.”

Schumer gives him a flat look that’s impossible to decipher. “Sure, Zimms, whatever you say.”

Jack breathes in, breathes out, steadies himself. “Sorry,” he says into the phone. “That was my asshole teammate who came looking for me. I should be going back.”

A drunk girl stumbles outside and smiles a lazy, unfocused smile at Jack, then waves. Jack awkwardly waves back.

“Oh, right, goodness,” Bitty says, and there it is again, that off-beat, off-rhythm, off-kilter feeling Jack can’t shake off. “What was I even thinking, you told me you were out with friends. Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight, Bittle. I’ll call you soon, okay?”

After Bitty disconnects, Jack stays out for a moment longer before heading back inside. He breathes deeply, once, twice, three times, shakes his head and flexes his fingers. They don’t tremble. Almost.


Off the Ice With Kurt Collins: Jack Zimmermann

Kurt Collins || September 9, 2015

Hockey prodigy at 18, hockey’s prodigal son at 19—this spring, Jack Zimmermann (25) signed a four-year contract with the Providence Falconers. Now that the new season is almost upon us, Richard Stewart is here to talk Jack Zimmermann, the Zimmermann legacy in hockey, as well as the upcoming season, and the Falconers’ new strategy to win the Cup in our weekly guest column.

KC: I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that we have all been watching this season’s new additions to the teams with bated breath, waiting for Jack Zimmermann, now fresh out of college, to sign with a team. There was quite a bit of controversy over his pick of an expansion team such as the Falconers, since everyone expected him to sign with a more established franchise. We know for a fact that the Bruins and the Habs were after him, as well as several other prominent teams with lots of Cup wins under their belts; unlike the Falconers, who went to the playoffs just once—last year.

RS: It’s certainly a strange decision, and as much as I admire the progress the Falconers have made these past few years, they are not Cup material yet. They’re too young, too inexperienced, they simply don’t have the star power to make it to the finish line, if you’ll forgive me mixing my sports metaphors. And if Zimmermann wants to follow in his father’s footsteps, he needs to be smart about it. And this, in my opinion, is not particularly smart.

KC: On the one hand, the Aces were an expansion team, too, when Parson joined them, and they went on to win the Cup after only two years. But, on the other hand, there certainly has been a lot of head-scratching among the hockey journalists over this decision, and while definitely there are many advantages to signing with an expansion team, you’re absolutely right that it can be also to the detriment of a player such as Zimmermann.

RS: I mean, he has to realize that he essentially had his career already cut short by his own actions. He’s not getting those six—almost seven—years back. He’s already twenty-five, and he has no experience in the league, he’s a rookie as far as experience is concerned. For the past four years, he played hockey at a university, on a team which never even reached the NCAA playoffs final. He might have the genes and the skills, but he has no idea what it really means to play in the NHL. That’s the one thing Bob Zimmermann can’t hand to him on a silver platter: the actual experience. I mean, look at it this way: everyone expected him to go first in the draft, back in 2009. Everyone wanted to have Bad Bob Zimmermann’s child prodigy on their team. But the kid just couldn’t take the pressure, and he ended up in rehab instead of wearing the Habs’ jersey. So Kent Parson went first in the draft instead, and two years later he won the Cup with the Aces. And I think Zimmermann knows it, he has to know it, that it could have been him, if he hadn’t crumbled under the pressure. And mind you, you can’t play hockey at this level until you’re forty, it’s just impossible. Even his father retired at thirty-seven, after he’d won the Cup four times with two different teams. So Zimmermann has a decade, maybe less, to win the Cup, and he’s wasting his time with the Falconers for some inexplicable reason. If he’d been smarter about this, he would’ve signed with the Bruins, if he wanted to stay on the East Coast. But if I’m being honest, this decision is just impossible for me to understand.

KC: You’re certainly right that there is a lot of pressure on his shoulders to succeed, and many people are not sure if the Falconers are the best team to help him succeed. They are severely lacking in star power, even though they have many solid, consistent players, but solid and consistent doesn’t win the Cup. So right now it looks like it’s precisely Zimmermann who is their greatest star, and he hasn’t even played one single game in the League yet. It seems really short-sighted of the Falconers to put all their eggs in this particular basket, too, because they have no idea how Zimmermann is going to fare outside of the NCAA. He did well in that environment, and he was, apparently, a good team captain, he was nominated for the Hobey Baker award in his senior year, but this is all in the past. Now he needs to prove himself on the ice in the big leagues. So let’s talk about this. What we know at this point is that Zimmermann is set to play on the first line with Holtz and Schumer, and that he’s going to play in the center, relegating Holtz back to the left wing. From what we have seen, though, there seems to be no bad blood between Zimmermann and Holtz for that reason, and Holtz has been known to mention from time to time that he actually prefers to play on the left wing. He also admitted that he’s actually relieved that Zimmermann is taking his position.

RS: It seems like the Falconers are really going after strengthening their offense, which is understandable, because they always relied on their great defense, but great defense doesn’t score goals, so it’s good that this is their priority. What I don’t particularly understand is putting your rookie at the center—that’s where you need experience and composure. Judging by all the robot jokes, Zimmermann may have the latter, but he definitely lacks the former. What I’m trying to say is, they should consider switching him back with Holtz if this doesn’t work out. And I’m having some serious doubts about this strategy.

KC: I guess only time will tell. The Falconers have talented coaches who have, no doubt, come up with contingency plans for any possible complications that might appear as the season progresses. For now, the camp is over, and it seems like Zimmermann will start his first season in the NHL at the center. But, to leave the topic of the Falconers for a moment, I think that, whenever you mention the name “Zimmermann” in hockey, you are bound to end up talking about the legacy connected with this name. Bob Zimmermann is a true hockey legend, and his career has been the object of envy of even the most accomplished contemporary players. It must be terrifying to try to follow in Bad Bob’s footsteps. I still remember when Newman admitted how terrified he was to take Bob Zimmermann’s position with the Pens after Bob had retired. I can only imagine what it must feel like for his own son.

RS: And then Newman went on to win the Cup with the Pens not once, but twice, so, I guess, it’s just a matter of separating the good from the great. And Mark Newman was certainly one of the great hockey players in recent history. You’re right, it’s hard to live up to the expectations when your own father has four Cup rings under his belt, especially coming back after you’d already sabotaged your own career once, but in the end, those are just excuses used to justify your own shortcomings. You can’t look to other people for comparison, you have to be the best you can be and own your failures as well as your successes.

Read more over at Hockey News Online:


Cory gets Jack Zimmermann assigned as his roommate while they’re on the road. It makes sense—they’re both rookies, technically, Cory fresh off the adrenaline high of the prospect camp, Zimmermann straight out of college, with his degree and his famous name, and a hefty signing bonus. And Cory doesn’t mind, not really, even though Jack is almost seven years older than him, and he has a college degree in History, and calls several hockey legends uncle. So yeah, maybe Jack Zimmermann doesn’t really feel like a rookie, whatever. He’s okay.

Their first game of the season is in Pittsburgh, which is great for Cory, because that’s where his parents live, so he knows they’ll be there in the stands, even if he doesn’t get any actual ice time. Who knows, it’s not like Cory is playing first line or anything.

Jack sits with Patrick Schumer on the bus, and Cory is saddled with a snoring Christiansen, who has like four inches and thirty pounds on him, and Cory is by no means a small guy, so it’s a tight fit, but they manage, for the most part, except for the fact that Christiansen’s legs are huge and they go everywhere when he’s out and dead to the world. When they finally arrive at the hotel, Cory can hear all his joints pop and crack when he stretches.

“I’m never riding with Christiansen again,” he says as they unpack in their hotel room. Jack takes the bed on the left and fishes a book out of his bag. “I have no idea how the fuck they grow them in Sweden, but that’s just unnatural.”

Jack chuckles softly on the other side of the room.

“Your folks coming?” Cory asks, and he tries to not sound too excited, but come on, it’s not every day that you get the chance to meet Bad Bob Zimmermann. “My parents live here in Pittsburgh, so they’ll be here. And my sister. The younger one. The older one lives in California.”

Jack shakes his head as he grabs his phone from the night stand. “No, dad has a charity event, they couldn’t make it. They’ll be there for our first home game, though.” The shrug doesn’t look half as casual as Jack probably thinks it does.

After dinner, Jack’s phone blows up with messages, and when Cory looks up from his game of Candy Crush (so he likes girly games, sue him; it’s all his sister’s fault anyway), he sees Jack smile as he reads through the texts.

“What’s up, Zimms? That your girl texting you?”

Jack abandons his phone for a second. “No, it’s a group chat. My old hockey team. They’re wishing us good luck tomorrow. And arguing. Mostly arguing, I think.”

“The Pens are going down. You can tell your buddies we’re going to kick their fucking asses,” Cory says.


They lose.

Jack scores, but the Pens wipe the floor with them, 5-1. It’s a brutal, brutal game for no apparent reason. Their D-men spend ridiculous amount of time in the penalty box. Holtzy is bleeding from a cut above the eye. Aaronowitz breaks his hand in a fight. It’s fucking embarrassing, is what it is.

Cory doesn’t get any ice time in the end, but his parents greet him all in tears anyway. Kathy just hugs him super tight and ruffles his hair.

“You did good, bro,” she says. “You did the best you could today.”

When he comes back into the locker room to get his bag, Jack is still trying to drown himself in the shower, or at least that’s what it looks like. He’s just standing there, butt-naked, and from the thick fog of steam rising around him, it seems like the water is scalding hot. Cory sure fucking hopes he’s not crying, because he’s not equipped to deal with crying guys, he just never knows what to say.

“Yo, Zimms, good game today,” he says, and Jack doesn’t turn around to look at him.

“Thanks,” he says in a hollow tone.

Back at the hotel, they sit on their respective beds in silence. Cory wasn’t even on the fucking ice, it’s not his fault in any way, but it’s not Jack’s fault, either. He scored their only goal, and it was beautiful, but they sucked sweaty balls as a collective, and that’s what really matters. Jack doesn’t seem to share this point of view. And Cory is not a fucking saint, okay, so maybe he googled the guy once or twice, or fifteen times when the news broke that he signed with the Falconers. So he knows what they say—that he doesn’t handle defeat well, and that he always blames himself for the losses. Captain mentality or some other bullshit.

They’re both startled by the sound of Jack’s phone ringing. Cory is absolutely, one hundred percent certain he’s just going to ignore it and let it go to voicemail or maybe turn the phone all the way off, but Jack takes one look at the caller ID and picks up.

He’s silent for a moment, then says, “No, no, I’m glad you called.”

And this, in Cory’s opinion, is some grade-A bullshit, because he’s never heard Zimms sound so soft and heartfelt. Whoever is on the other end of the line must be really fucking something.

Jack relocates to the bathroom, but the acoustics in this hotel are pretty impressive, so Cory overhears a lot anyway, even though he’s trying his best not to actively eavesdrop.

“No, it’s just— I just didn’t think we would lose this badly. They really, really wanted it, I guess. Or maybe we didn’t want it bad enough,” Jack says, then, after a moment, “The press was gone by the time I left the locker room, Holtzy and Schumer took care of it. There were some reporters loitering outside, but I dodged them. I just— I needed a moment to myself. I hope the PR people are not going to be mad at me for skipping, and I know what dad would say about responsibility, but I just— it was hard, you know? I didn’t think it would hit me this hard.”

There’s some rustling and the sound of a glass being filled with water. This is probably the most Cory has ever heard Jack Zimmermann say in one breath. Now just if he refrained from baring his soul in a shitty hotel bathroom with great acoustics, Cory would really appreciate it.

“No, you don’t have to, really. Bitty, really, it’s not— Okay. Okay, fine,” Jack says after a moment of silence, and then he laughs. Honest to god laughs. It’s quiet, and so fucking genuine. “Chocolate chip. The ones you smuggled into my bag after—” he halts to an abrupt stop. “When I went home for Christmas.”

Another moment of silence, and Cory is this close to just leaving to, like, bring them some ice or something, even though they don’t exactly need ice, when Jack finally says, all touching sincerity and quiet hope, “Thank you. This really means a lot, Bitty. Take care of yourself, and I’ll see you in Providence, eh? I mean, you’re staying, right?”

Cory pretends to be sleeping when Jack comes back into the room. It’s better like that.


The Providence Falconers @TheProvidenceFalconers
Congratulations to #JackZimmermann on his first NHL goal!


Eric Bittle @omgcheckplease
So proud I could cry. I’m sending cookies instead. #JackZimmermann #ProvidenceFalconers