The schedule felt impossible.
Twelve games, fourteen days, five star systems.
The team moved quickly from the ice moons of Cryo-7, where a fastball would shatter if thrown too hard, to the water world of Aquaria, where outfielders had to wear flotation devices.
Cal didn't sleep. He pitched on three days' rest, then two. He came out of the bullpen in the seventh inning one night and started the next afternoon.
His arm—the synthetic creation crafted by Dr. K'rll—felt indestructible. It didn't tire or ache. But the rest of him? The human parts? They were breaking down. His lower back felt like it was made of broken glass. His legs felt like heavy weights. His eyes burned from the constant changes in lighting.
And then there was the slime.
"You have green stuff in your ear," Nex pointed out as they boarded the shuttle for the trip's final leg.
Cal rubbed his ear. A glob of Gloob's bio-luminescent residue came away on his finger. "It's grip, Nex. It's the sweet nectar of victory."
They stood at 9-2 during the stretch. They had fought their way back from the edge. The "Slimeball Battery"—Vance and Gloob—had become a highlight on galactic reels. Hitters struggled to pick up the spin on the goop-covered ball. Umpires were disgusted but couldn't do anything about it.
Now, it all came down to this: Game 162.
They were tied with the Centauri Cyclones for the final Wild Card spot.
"One game," Xylos rasped while pacing in the Cyclones' locker room. "Winner gets the playoff berth. Loser goes home to explain to their hive-queens why they failed."
The Cyclones were quick. They were insectoid-centaurs—four legs, two arms, and clicking mandibles. They didn't hit for power; they hit ground balls and ran fast.
"The surface is turf," Xylos warned. "Synthetic weave. Quick. If the ball hits the ground, they will beat the throw. Keep it in the air. Strike them out."
Cal sat in front of his locker, wrapping his left ankle. Gorth towered over him.
"You look small, human," Gorth said kindly.
"I feel small, Gorth."
"Do not worry," the giant rumbled, patting his bat. "I will hit ball far. You throw ball straight. Gloob will be sticky. We win."
Cal stood up, wincing as his back cracked. "Let's go."
The game was chaotic with speed and tension.
In the first inning, the Cyclones' leadoff hitter bunted. The ball rolled ten feet. By the time Cal fielded it, the runner was already on first base, cleaning his antennae.
In the third inning, Gorth hit a two-run homer that dented the scoreboard, giving them a 2-1 lead.
In the sixth, Cal allowed a bloop single that led to a run after the runner stole second, third, and home on three consecutive pitches.
Tied at 2-2.
Top of the ninth. Zix, the three-eyed shortstop, walked. He stole second. Then came a miracle: Gloob, batting ninth, was hit by a pitch (the ball just got stuck in his shoulder).
Runners on first and second. Two outs. Cal was on deck, but in the Galactic League, there was a designated hitter rule for pitchers (thankfully).
Krix was up to bat. The Viperian had been struggling lately, with dull scales. He faced the Cyclones' ace, a multi-limbed creature that threw knuckleballs.
Krix hissed, waiting patiently. Instead of trying to pull the ball, he slapped a line drive into right field.
Zix scored. 3-2.
Bottom of the ninth. The crowd buzzed with the sound of clicking mandibles.
Cal took the mound. He had thrown 115 pitches. His human legs trembled. Sweat stung his eyes.
"Last three outs, Cal," Borp's voice crackled in his earpiece. The injured catcher was watching from a med-bay below the stadium. "Don't let them put the ball in play."
First batter: Strikeout on three pitches. The Gloob-Goop curveball was biting hard.
Second batter: A ground ball to short. Zix fielded it cleanly, but the centaur creature was a blur. The throw was late. Safe at first.
The crowd roared.
Third batter: A slap-hitter. He chopped the ball into the turf. It bounced high over Cal's head. Zix charged but had no chance at second. He stopped the ball.
Runners on first and second. One out.
Manager Xylos stepped out of the dugout, walking toward the mound.
"No," Cal said aloud, glaring at the manager. "Don't you do it."
Xylos reached the mound. "You are tired, Vance. Your heart rate is one-eighty. Your dopamine levels are crashing."
"I'm fine," Cal growled. He glanced at the bullpen. A young rookie—a silicon-based flamethrower—was warming up. "I got us here. Just let me finish it."
Xylos looked at Gloob, who bubbled affirmatively. He looked at Gorth at first base, who nodded.
"One batter," Xylos said. "You walk him, you sit."
Xylos stepped back.
The next batter was Klik-Tak, the Cyclones' captain. He was hitting .400 this season and had hydraulic-like legs.
Cal rubbed the ball. It was slick with green slime. He took a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart.
First pitch: Fastball, high. Klik-Tak didn't swing. Ball one.
Second pitch: Slider, low. Klik-Tak fouled it off. Strike one.
Third pitch: The Dead Fish. Klik-Tak swung early but was so fast he checked his swing. The umpire hesitated.
"Ball two!"
Cal groaned. 2-1 count.
Fourth pitch: Fastball, inside corner.
CRACK.
A line drive shot straight for Cal's head.
Cal didn't have time to think. His synthetic reflexes took over. His glove snapped up in a blur.
WHAP.
The ball hit the webbing of his glove so hard it nearly knocked him backward. He stumbled, falling onto his rear.
He looked at his glove. The ball was there. Snow-coned.
"Out!" the umpire yelled.
But the runners!
The runner on second took off with contact. He was halfway to third when he froze, realizing the ball was caught. He hurried to turn around, his four hooves slipping on the turf.
Cal was sitting on the ground. He couldn't stand up in time to throw.
"GORTH!" Cal yelled.
He threw the ball from his butt. It wasn't a pretty throw. It wobbled through the air, dripping slime.
Gorth stood on first base, stretching as far as his large frame allowed. The runner on first dove back to the bag.
The ball sailed toward Gorth. The runner on second scrambled back.
It was going to be a double play. The game-winner.
If the ball stuck.
Gorth's mitt popped. He squeezed.
"OUT! DOUBLE PLAY!"
The stadium went silent.
Cal fell back onto the turf, staring at the stadium lights. He couldn't breathe. His lungs burned.
Then, the sun was blocked out.
Gorth stood over him, roaring—a sound of pure victory—and scooped Cal up like a toy.
"We go to playoffs!" Gorth bellowed.
Zix jumped on Gorth's back. Gloob slithered over and hugged Cal's leg, leaving a massive wet stain. Krix stood near the mound with his arms crossed but gave Cal a rare, stiff nod.
Nex appeared in the chaos, holding a towel.
"Congratulations, Cal," Nex shouted over the noise of the celebrating team. "You just earned your bonus."
Cal wiped the slime and sweat off his face. He looked at his teammates—monsters, outcasts, and blobs.
"Forget the bonus," Cal laughed, feeling the adrenaline finally crash into exhaustion. "Just get me a beer. And maybe a solvent bath."
"The playoffs start in three days," Nex said, checking his datapad. "We open against the Void-Walkers."
"Three days?" Cal groaned, letting Gorth carry him off the field. "I can sleep for three days."
"Sleep fast, human," Gorth laughed. "The Void-Walkers do not use bats. They use gravity hammers."
Cal closed his eyes. Let them use hammers. He had a slimy curveball and a team that wouldn't give up.
He was ready for the Big Show.