Almost nothing they believe in is the same.

Street pulls the oiled wooden beads of the rosary through his fingertips as he reviews the facts. Zito is a long-haired hippie who buys his clothes from the thrift store on 17th and smokes too much pot. Street went to a Catholic high school, didn't have a sip of alcohol outside of communion until he was 21 years old (10 months ago) and still calls his parents every Sunday after Mass. Zito just dumped the most recent in a long line of model/actress girlfriends; Huston is still a virgin. They don't even like the same parts of the newspaper; Street's a classic New York Times crossword man, while Zito likes that stupid Sudoku thing, elbow forever in Street's side as he scratches in and scratches out numbers.

He reminds himself of all these things as he watches Kirk Saarloos fall off the rubber and skim a gutsy little slider past Wells, freezing him in the box, the slap of it hitting Kendall's glove echoing a second before the cheers. It's the most perfect moment Street can imagine.

"Strike one," Zito says at his shoulder, catching Street off-guard for the seventieth time today, unnervingly light on his feet for a man his size. "Best pitch in baseball."

Almost nothing, Street remembers.

After the game (5-3 win, Street's first big-league save of his career) he comes out of the showers to find Zito sitting on the bench in front of his locker, already scrubbed and dressed and thrumbing through a small book. Street recognizes it as his travel Bible and feels the tips of his ears begin to burn. He clears his throat quietly, in the sort of way that indicates he's regretful his presence is intruding on Zito's space, and looks tactfully to the ceiling so that Zito can slip the book back into his locker and pretend he wasn't just caught pawing through Street's stuff; but when he lowers his gaze again Zito is watching him, the bible pressed flat between his wide palms.

"You keep a bible in your locker," Zito says, no inflection, his game face in place.

"Yeah," Street says.

Zito purses his mouth, half-turning to squint over his shoulder into Street's locker.

"No Hustlers," Zito says, angling a suspicious look at him, and Street can feel the blush spread and creep down his neck until his whole body feels hot and he can imagine the water from the shower steaming off his skin.

"No," he says, hitching the towel a little higher on his hips.

Zito nods and sets the bible back up on the top shelf, next to the Eckersley bobblehead doll and the smudged baseball that Byrnes recovered from the final out. Zito stands, moving back to let Street get to his locker. "I'm having a party," he says to the ceiling.

He looks at Street and blinks. "You can come," he says and smiles his shark-grin, as if this is unquantifiable generosity, and Street is ashamed of the surge of gratitude that pushes through him.

"Okay," he says, and Zito drifts away to talk to Haren, Street already forgotten.

x

"Poor puppy," someone says in his ear, "someone left you all on your own." Street turns toward the voice, too fast, his world tipping off-balance and spilling out like an upset glass. There's warm laughter and a warmer arm around his shoulders, burning against the back of his neck where his shirt collar's rucked down, the baby-fine hairs exposed at the nape. The noise swells and he feels thick and slow-tongued, hiccupping as the world swirls and rights itself.

"Careful," Zito says, damp syllables on the surve of his jaw and a sticky cup pushing into his hand. "If you bash your head open on my floor I'm gonna stop inviting you to my parties."

"Think ah'm drunk," Street mumbles into the worn softness of Zito's t-shirt, his accent tangled and wide. He's starting to feel a little steady again, but he doesn't want to let go, which is why he pushes off hard from Zito's side and jerks back so fast he slams into Crosby coming through the living room.

"Jesus Christ, fucking watch where you're going," Crosby spits, flicking Street like a fly back into Zito's vacant arms, his rum and coke splashing up over the lip of the cup and sinking into Street's shirt.

"Fucking drunk rookies," and the shortstop's eyes are bright and hollowed out.

"Damn," Street mumbles, turning to watch Crosby weave away, "I didn't... I should go 'pologize," leaning vaguely in the direction of Crosby's retreating back but getting no further as Zito hauls him toward the kitchen.

"He'll get over it," the hippie tells him. "Let's clean you up. You can't go wandering around my parties with booze all down the front of your shirt, you look like a fucking frat boy." Street thinks to say that there seem to be a lot of rules at Zito's parties, but he's just so happy to be here.

"That was a hell of a ninth you threw tonight," Zito remarks comfortably as he wets a paper towel and starts to scrub at Street's chest, the closer blinking and holding still like a messy child hauled in by his mother for cleaning. "You were a closer at Texas, right?"

"Yes," Street says, remembering the way the sun prickled on the back of his neck when his catcher jumped into his arms and an army of twenty-year-olds dogpiled them both. "Never been nothin' else," by which he means never since it began to really count, which Zito probably knows already. The entire organization could probably recite Street's high school statistics.

"You must be real good at it, then," Zito says, approximating Street's loose runken drawl, and Street smiles tentatively, uncertain whether he's being made fun of maliciously or not.

"There. You look sort of respectable again." Zito balls the paper towel up and tosses it away, smooth easy flick of the wrist, his other hand lingering on Street's arm, skipping up his sleeve and across the knotted ridges of his shoulder. Street feels the callused fingertips drag over the sweat-slick skin of his throat, ducking into the hollow spot behind his jaw. Zito's knuckles knock his chin, tipping his head back, and his breath gets quick as he scans the ceiling, jaw unhooked and lashes fluttering as Zito runs his thumb beneath Street's chin and drops his hand.

"Missed a spot," he says when Street lowers his chin, drowst and confused, watching Zito like a wary dog as he pats Street's shoulder and returns to the party.

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