The Hockey’s Plaything
"What are you watching?"
I glanced over at her, trying not to stare too obviously at the way her tiny shorts rode up her thighs. Isabella was the spitting image of her mother, with long dark hair, hazel eyes, and curves that could stop traffic. She was only 18, but she had the body of a woman.
"Just the game," I said, forcing myself to look back at the TV. "How was your day? Did you have fun with your friends?"
Isabella nodded, leaning back against the couch and crossing her long legs. "It was great! We went to the mall and I bought a new bikini. Want to see it?"