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“Well, maybe you should.” She plopped the mop in the sudsy bucket that smelled of lemons and bleach. “Because even if your team takes the title at the end of the season, it won’t matter. No one will want to work for our stadium and Cyclone Crowley.”

The tower of plastic cups I carried toppled to the ground.

Truth: Mom and I—and quite possibly the entire town—had been calling Dad that for years during any season he coached…behind his back. Obviously.

Dad stopped counting the money and faced me, cheeks blotchy.

Yikes. Definitely a Category Three now. Make a clear path for the inevitable pacing.

“Cyclone…Crowley?” The vein above his right eyebrow pulsed.

“Well, have you seen your face when you lose?” Mom continued mopping and shaking her head. “You make a volcanic explosion look like a hiccup.”

I held back my laughter.

“Hey, it could be worse.” I bent down to pick up the cups that fell. “What if you were…Cutesy Crowley? Then everyone would want hugs, and Lauryn would be out of the job as our mascot because they’d want it to be you.”

The popcorn machine stopped popping.

The back prep sink dripped three times.

And then Dad did something I hadn’t heard in forever. He laughed.

It bellowed around the kitchen, rich and full, while my feet stuck to the floor. I wanted to record this moment, take a picture, a video, something so I could visit it or play it back later, during another moment when he was caught in the eye of his own storm.

I’d forgotten how much I liked that sound, how much I’d missed it.

This was the same laugh from when he used to pitch to me at the ballpark, when he taught me to ride a bike and watched my dance recitals. Mom used to say he only laughed that way with me. But then I outgrew my bike and dance shoes and started enjoying being behind the scenes more than standing center stage. Dad stopped asking me to play catch, and I stopped missing it.

Yet here he was, laughing like he used to, and I had no idea what to think or how to respond. I couldn’t open myself up to disappointment. I wouldn’t allow myself to believe he changed courses that quickly.

He was a cyclone, after all.

Mom tiptoed over to him and kissed his chin. She whispered something in his ear, and he cackled before smacking her butt.

Bleh. “Come on, guys.” I covered my eyes.

Mom shushed me and went back to her mopping. “I can’t help but wonder if maybe you wouldn’t be this tense if you hadn’t made such a foolish bet, Will.”

Oh boy.

“Maybe I did what I thought would be best for our family, Maggie,” Dad snapped.

“Without talking to your family first?”

Point: Mom.

“If you didn’t notice, we had a sold-out crowd tonight,” he added, his voice tense. “First time in years we had that on a season opener. Drama draws crowds.”

Point: Dad. Much as I hated to admit it.

“I noticed,” Mom mumbled. “But we also lost.”

Whoa. Mom with the game changer.

Dad slammed the register shut before storming out of the concession building, rattling the walls and making an old framed team picture clatter to the floor.

I picked it up and gently placed it back on the small peg.