Clint Capela smiled as he talked into the phone. “Hey Dwight. I’m calling again even though you told me not to.”
“Dude, give it up,” Dwight said in exasperation. “You’re rid of me. I’m not on the Rockets anymore to take your minutes or whatever weird conspiracy you’ve come up with.”
“Oh, I’m past all that,” Clint replied. “Don’t worry. If we did end up on the same team, it would be ME taking YOUR minutes, anyway.” Clint ignored his rival’s dismissive snort and continued, “I don’t know if you look at the stats, but after I dominated the Blazers with my 21-point game, I’m averaging nearly the same numbers as you did in Houston. But with better efficiency because I don’t have any illusions about the effectiveness of my post game.”
“I’m the biggest dude on the court at all times,” Dwight said. “Of course they should feed me in the post. I can overtake anybody. Your skinny body would snap in half trying to body up any real center. But that doesn’t matter now because things are great in Atlanta.”
Clint grinned wickedly as he came up with something new that would really annoy his former teammate. “You know that cheerleader you were banging? Kaylah? Not only am I now the one who is banging her, but I found out she has the herpes. So that’s pretty funny.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Dwight pointed out. “Now you’re banging the chick with herpes, and it’s sloppy seconds, which is never something to be proud of.”
“Kaylah’s so hot even with her STDs,” Clint said smugly, not comprehending Dwight’s point. “She loves how I average 12 and 9 with two blocks.”
“She probably doesn’t even know what those numbers mean. She’s pretty dumb. She knows you have money though.”
“It looks like I win this round,” Clint concluded. “You can expect more calls from me as I develop into the league’s next elite center while you whither away in Alaska or wherever it is you play now.”
“Atlanta,” Dwight replied.
“Call over now. Remember, I hate you,” Clint said before ending the call. “He was so mad,” he said to himself, cackling wildly.