“Clint, can you hurry up with whoever you’re texting, we’re all waiting to go celebrate,” said an annoyed P.J. Tucker as the rest of the Rockets team stood around waiting.
“You can’t rush the creative process,” Clint said, not looking up from the screen of his phone where he was furiously tapping.
“If it’s just some chick who wants the pipe, you can text her when we get to the club, she doesn’t need a whole love letter.”
“You guys go on without me, I’ll Uber over there in a little bit. I’m just catching up with an old friend after my big game.” Clint smiled secretly to himself after this not-quite-truthful explanation.
P.J. sighed. “Suit yourself.” The rest of his teammates filed out of the locker room, and Clint was finally alone. After a few more minutes of composition, he reviewed the finished composition, then hit “send” on his first message.