Page 22 of Diesel

I marked a number I definitely didn’t have. The wrong column, wrong everything.

Ollie’s stare dropped to my card. His brows pinched. “That’s not O-63.”

“I must’ve misheard.”

“It’s right there.” He tapped my paper with his dauber. “You marked G-48.”

“Dyslexic.”

A laugh threatened at the corner of his mouth. “That’s not how numbers work.”

“B-12,” the caller said.

I moved to mark N-whatever. Ollie’s hand slapped over my card before the ink could land. “You are absolutely doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?” I said, all innocence.

He looked at me like I was full of shit. “Marking wrong numbers. You’ve gotten almost every single one wrong since we started.”

“Maybe I’m just bad at bingo.” I wanted to spend time with Ollie, not win a game I’d never played. I didn’t care about bingo. I cared about Ollie having fun.

“Nobody’s this bad at bingo. My grandmother had dementia and she still got more right than you,” he said.

“I’m bad at a lot of things.” My hand turned over under his, palm up. His fingers found the gaps between mine. “Bingo’s apparently one of them.”

“You’re—” His eyes moved over my face. “You’re doing it on purpose. You’re trying to lose.”

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

I looked at him. “Your face does something when you mark a number. Goes a little bright.” I let a beat pass. “Winning’s not that interesting.”

He glanced down at our hands and stayed there a moment. “That’s—” He cleared his throat. “That’s really sweet.”

“Keep it to yourself,” I said. “Got a reputation.”

“Too late.” Greta was already grinning across the table. “We all heard it. You’re a softy, Diesel.”

“Greta,” Ollie said.

“What? It’s adorable. Big scary tattooed man tanking his bingo card so his boyfriend can win.”

“He’s not my—” Ollie stopped. His eyes cut to me. “We haven’t exactly—”

“I-24,” the caller said loudly.

The bingo caller saved us from having to finish that sentence. Ollie let go of my hand and picked up his dauber.

Someone three tables over shouted “Bingo!” with enough enthusiasm to rattle the overhead lights. Applause broke out, mixed with grumbling from people who’d been close enough to feel cheated.

“Rematch,” Walter declared, already squaring his cards. “That was stolen from me.”

“You weren’t even close,” Edith said.

“I had a system.”

“Your system was complaining about your dentures.”