The United Center in Chicago was supposed to be buzzing. When the schedule was released, the rematch between the Chicago Sky and the Indiana Fever was circled by fans and media alike. Caitlin Clark was supposed to be there, the rookie phenom whose arrival had electrified the WNBA. But Clark was out with an injury, and the noise around the game quieted. Tickets, once hot commodities, were now being sold for three dollars. The headlines wrote themselves.
Angel Reese walked into the arena with her head held high. She wore a pink suit, her hair perfectly styled, and a confidence that was both armor and target. Cameras flashed as she walked the carpet, but the energy felt different. She could sense it—a skepticism, a hunger for drama, a readiness to pounce if she stumbled.
Inside the locker room, the mood was tense. The Sky were struggling, the chemistry off, and the pressure mounting. Angel tried to focus on her routine: headphones on, playlist thumping, a few words with teammates. But she could feel eyes on her, not just from the crowd, but from her own bench.
The game began, and from the start, nothing seemed to click. The Fever, even without Clark, played with a chip on their shoulder. They moved the ball, cut hard, and defended with purpose. The Sky, meanwhile, looked lost. Angel fought for rebounds, posted up, and tried to find her rhythm, but the ball wouldn’t fall. Two for seven from the field. Four points. Minus 20 in the plus-minus. Every miss felt heavier than the last.
From the stands, the murmurs grew. On social media, the jokes started. Clips of her missed shots, her turnovers, her frustrated expressions—everything was dissected and mocked. “Brick layer,” some called her. “Overhyped.” “Embarrassing.” The crowd, smaller than expected, was restless. A few fans cheered, but the energy was flat.
After the final buzzer, the Sky had been blown out. Players filed off the court, heads down. Angel lingered, signing a few autographs for kids who still looked at her with wide-eyed hope. She smiled for them, but inside, she felt hollow.
Back in the locker room, the silence was thick. Reporters waited outside, ready with questions that weren’t really questions—just invitations for soundbites, for controversy. Angel took a deep breath and faced them.
“What happened out there tonight?” one asked.
Angel shrugged. “We didn’t play our best. I didn’t play my best. But it’s a long season. We’ll get back to work.”
Another reporter pressed. “Some say you’re more focused on your brand than your game. How do you respond?”
Angel’s jaw
