"Boys ...!" Martin's mother called. "Bedtime ...!"
               Martin smiled; he'd been waiting weeks for tonight. He missed his monster teammates, the cheering fans, and even craggy old Grand Wizard Bastile Wraithbone.
               It was almost nine; his younger brothers voiced their usual complaints, yet Martin watched the last minute of their TV show calmly, concealing his excitement.
               At midnight, Martin would fall out of bed into the realm of monsters ... where he'd helped the Shantdareya Skullcrackers win the Finals of last season's Grotesquerie Games. In four days the new season would begin ... and tonight was Martin's first training.
               Soon Martin stood before the sink in his pajamas and brushed his teeth as his mother chased his brothers away from the TV and toward their rooms, shouting at them to hurry and change. Martin finished, then stepped out of the bathroom, and almost walked into his older sister as she ambled down the hallway, her nose in a book.
               "Say hello to Murder for me ...," Vicky whispered.
               "Stay away from broken airlocks ...," Martin whispered back.
               Still reading, Vicky smiled and wandered into the kitchen. She had her own books, a universe of space-elves in sleek, powerful starships fighting the evil Slurks. Yet Martin preferred his own discovery; the monster-world where he was already a hero and fan favorite ... Martin the Magnificent.
               Murder Shelling was his favorite teammate, although she wouldn't be able to play again for months. Murder was a Dryad, sturdy as a tree trunk, yet beautiful and deep green ... even her skin and hair. She played as a Small on the Shantdareya Skullcrackers, yet she'd suffered a terrible injury. In the semi-finals of the Grotesquerie Games playoffs, she'd saved Martin's life at great sacrifice; she'd been crushed by a vengeful act of the RatKing Fried Fright ... which had gotten him banned from the league for the whole next season ... with no guarantee he'd return.
               His other teammates included Brain Stroker, a huge, fanged ogre, yet not as massive and imposing as Allfed Snitchlock, the strongest troll in the league. Yet ogres were smarter than trolls ... and less likely to eat a teammate by mistake. Their other Bigs were Happy Lostcraft, the proud centaur, and Crusto Fernwalker, the wise, secretive lizardman. His least favorite teammate was Stabbing Kingz, not because he was a greasy ratling, but because he was snarky, pessimistic, and delighted in sarcasm.
               Martin couldn't wait to see his friends again, so he kissed his mom good-night, closed his bedroom door, and turned off his light. Then, in the dark, Martin changed out of his pajamas, pulled on his socks, sneakers, jeans, and purple jersey with a large, white thirteen on it. He climbed into bed, leaving his sneakers sticking out the side, hidden by the drape of his bedspread. He closed his eyes and pulled his covers up to his chin, in case his parents peeked in on him while he slept.
               Once the games started, he'd be desperate to get enough sleep. School would be starting soon, so he'd need rest whenever he could get it.

               "Martin ...!" a chorus of voices cried.
               Martin awoke as he fell through midair, then crashed into massive troll palms, each of which were as big as his chest. The green hands set him onto his feet in what was obviously a locker room, but with dull white stone walls; this wasn't the gray locker room he'd always appeared in before. Yet he only had eyes for the monstrous shapes around him.
               "Crusto, Snitch, Stabbing ...!" Martin couldn't keep his smile out of his voice. "Where's Murder?"
               To answer him, Crusto stepped aside. As green as she was lovely, Murder smiled at him. She was still in her wheelchair, although not covered with bandages and splints as he'd last seen her. He ran to her and clasped her outstretched hand.
               "How are you?" Martin asked.
               "Healing nicely," Murder smiled, her emerald eyes bright and shining. "The human medicines you gave me helped."
               "You look great," Martin said.
               "I can even walk ... a little," Murder said.
               Martin tried to smile, yet couldn't excise his guilt.
               "I still say you shouldn't have ...," Martin lamented.
               "My injuries weren't your fault," Murder said. "I'll be able to play again ... by the end of these Local games, I hope. Definitely in the next session, when we start playing the Regionals, at the worst before this season's Finals ... assuming we win these games."
               "Is there anything I can do ...?" Martin asked.
               "Help us win the Locals," Murder said. "Until I heal, we need you as a Small."
               "I'm in ... for the win!" Martin promised.
               "We're delighted to hear that," Grand Wizard Bastile Wraithbone said. "We need to start training. We don't want to disgrace last season's honorable Finals' victory by not making it to the Regionals."
               "Some teams don't make the Regionals?" Martin asked.
               "Most teams never get out of the Locals," Happy Lostcraft said, clip-clopping forward on his four centaur hooves. "You joined us in the first game of the Finals; we'd already won the Regionals, and the Locals before that."
               "The Locals should be a breeze, except for the Greasy Golems," Stabbing said. "Last year, we beat the Greasy Golems in the Locals, but lost to them in the Regionals, and only got a wildcard into the Finals."
               "In the Regionals, we face the winners of all the Locals ... even those who tie," Murder said. "If we succeed, then we enter the Finals ..."
               "Win Locals ...!" Brain Stroker roared, and Snitch grunted loudly.
               Martin smiled, looking up at the ogre, Brain, and at the even more-fearsome troll, Snitch.
               "We'll win," Martin promised them.
               "Hello, Martin," Veils said.
               Martin turned around and slightly blushed. Veilscreech Hobbleswoon stood in the doorway, her smile beaming, wearing a purple Skullcracker jersey with an eleven printed in big white numbers. Long, dark hair hid her pale, pointed ears, but otherwise she looked human. Veils was a beautiful dark-elf, only two months younger than him. She'd been too young to play in last season's Grotesquerie Games, but they'd used an aging spell to sneak her in, which let them win the last game of the Finals and the grand prize: the magic staff of Master Grand Wizard Borgias Killoff.
               "My birthday was last Rompday!" Veils grinned. "I'm officially a Small ...!"
               "That means we have enough Smalls!" Crusto said.
               "Yes, but it also means none of you can get hurt," Grand Wizard Bastile Wraithbone said. "Again, we have no spare Small."
               "What about me ...?" Rude asked.
               A light-green man with long pointed ears and a breadstick nose came walking out of the dressing room. Rude Stealing was a goblin, a master of strategy, and their cleverest and most articulate teammate. When one of Grand Wizard Bastile Wraithbone's spells had misfired, Rude had accidentally landed in Martin's bedroom in the human world, from where he'd drawn Martin into the monster world in the middle of their first game of the Finals. Rude looked the same as ever; thin, with thick tufts of hair hanging from his ears, yet his eyes were bright and shining. He walked into the room without crutches or a cane.
               "Rude!" Martin smiled. "You're healed!"
               "No, he isn't," Grand Wizard Bastile Wraithbone smiled. "If Rude is able to play, then we have three Smalls ... and the Grand Wizard's Council won't let Martin back onto our team."
               "I won't be able to play ...?" Rude complained.
               "You will," Grand Wizard Bastile Wraithbone assured him. "Once the Grotesquerie Games start, Martin will officially be on our team for the whole season ... hopefully including the Finals!"
               "One of us will pretend to have a slight accident ... and then Rude can rejoin the team when we need him," Veils said. "Rude's our secret weapon, a backup in case a Small gets hurt; our surprise the other teams won't be expecting."
               "We'll be lucky if no one gets hurt... or killed," Murder said. "Our first game is Marsh Paddle Rider."
               At this announcement, everyone sighed.
               "What's Marsh Paddle Rider?" Martin asked.
               "A disgustingly dirty game," Happy said. "Tell me, Martin; have you ever thrown a lasso?"

               Martin followed them outdoors, to the starlit playing field, stunned to see the nightmare before him. These dark-stone stands weren't the ones he'd seen before; they were in a different stadium ... and all the flags around the pitch were purple, the color of the Shantdareya Skullcrackers ... and a scent of brine filled the air.
               "Are we on Shantdareya Island?" Martin asked.
               "Of course!" Stabbing sneered. "We won the Finals, so we get Home-Team Advantage."
               Martin frowned; not growing up on the monster world, he didn't know all the rules. However, as they neared the pitch, the changed venue didn't surprise him most. Between these dark-stone stands stretched a long, rectangular lake ... not of water but of thick mud, murky slime, and reeking, festering goo.
               Happy Lostcraft lifted a wooden framework and strapped it over his shoulders like a backpack, but its strong framework upheld no cloth bag. Instead, high atop the backpack frame was affixed a leather saddle ... such as a jockey might ride on the back of a horse.
               "Marsh Paddle Rider is a real drag," Stabbing sneered. "Bigs wear raised saddles on their backs, and Smalls have to stay in the saddle without falling off ... while Bigs paddle their way through this muck ... and we lasso enemy Smalls. Once we lasso them, we pull our opponents off their saddles, down into the mud. Then we just hold on; our Bigs drag them across our goal line. Every time we pull an enemy Small across our goal line, we get one point ... two points, if we carry the zombie head when we score."
               Martin smiled; he'd made friends with the zombie head in the last Grotesquerie Games. He was a nice guy ... for a living, rotting head without a body.
               "That's it?" Martin asked. "We lasso and drag their Smalls across the goal line ... with the zombie head ... and we win ...?"
               "It's not that easy," Rude Stealing warned. "Their Smalls will be trying to lasso you, and both teams can score at the same time. That muck is thick, hard to push through, and the biggest Bigs get mired in it, even the strongest." He glanced at Snitch. "Bigs carry wide paddles to help them row through the muck, and there's nothing to hang onto while you're atop a saddle. It's easy to fall off ... even without monsters trying to lasso and pull you down."
               "That muck's impossible to swim in," Crusto said, hissing his words through his lizardman's forked tongue. "Even I can't do more than wade."
               "Magic lassos make it even worse," Murder said. "Once their loops close, these lassos don't open until someone lets go of the other end the rope ... or until you cross a goal line. That muck is like quicksand ... Smalls sink over their heads."
               "Fouls happen with alarming frequency," Crusto said. "You can't lasso a Big, even by accident. Bigs can't grab a lasso, not even to pull a sinking Small out of the muck. Bigs fight with the padded handgrips of their paddles; if they hit a Small, or another Big, with any other part of the paddle, then they get zapped ... and the Small that's riding atop them suffers, too."
               "Ouch ...!" Martin grimaced, remembering how painful zaps were.
               "You need to learn how to throw a lasso, how to hold onto a saddle, and how to fall into thick muck without hurting yourself," Veils said. "Getting dragged is equally difficult; you have to keep your eyes clear and your mouth closed."
               "That's why Rude's terrible at it," Stabbing laughed. "He can't shut up."
               "Purposefully blinding an opponent with mud is also a foul, but it's hard to prove," Rude said, ignoring Stabbing's jibe. "You'll constantly need new lassos, as they get filthy ... like everything does in this game."
               "Bigs use their paddles to fling the zombie head to their Smalls," Happy said. "A lot of muck gets tossed up; every player gets coated ... and the refs ... and anyone near the pitch, even inside the front rows of the stands. Last season Evilla got caked ..."
               "That was funny!" Murder grinned.
               "Yea ...," Stabbing chuckled at Murder. "She had nothing nice to say about you for three games!"
               Martin grinned, imagining sexy, fast-talking Evilla getting a face-full of mud.
               "When do we begin?" Martin asked.
               "Right now," Grand Wizard Bastile Wraithbone said. "Let's start!"