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Summary
Zhenya was a little embarrassed to admit that part of the reason he had green-lit this trade to Pittsburgh in the first place was because of Crosby himself: his insane hockey, his wolfish smile, the lingering remnants of Zhenya’s boyhood crush. Zhenya propped his stick against the wall and stuck out his hand to shake.
“Hey,” he said, smiling and hoping it didn’t look too stupid. “Evgeni.”
But Crosby didn’t take off his gloves and shake hands like Hornqvist had. He waved his hand in apology, thick inside his dirty glove. “Hey,” he replied curtly. “Sid.”