Mikey
Buying an engagement ring should not have been harder than stopping a three-hundred-pound defensive tackle determined to go through my chest and bury Liam beneath the turf.
At least with a defensive tackle, I knew what he wanted.
He wanted past me.
He wanted my quarterback.
And my job was simple: plant my feet, get my hands inside, and make sure the son of a b***h went nowhere.
The woman standing behind the glass counter wanted me to choose between an oval-cut diamond, a cushion-cut diamond, a pear-shaped diamond, and something called an emerald cut that, despite the name, was still apparently a diamond. She had explained the difference twice, and I was no closer to understanding any of it than I had been when Liam and I walked into the private jewelry showroom twenty minutes e
