The Chicago Sky’s practice facility was a place of echoes—sneakers squeaking, balls thumping, voices rising and falling. But lately, there was a different kind of noise swirling around the team. Headlines. Hot takes. Social media storms. And at the center of it all was Angel Reese.
Angel had arrived in Chicago with the fanfare of a champion. She was fresh off a dazzling college career, her name on every lips, her face on billboards, her signature already inked on a major shoe deal. The city, and much of the basketball world, expected her to be the next big thing—not just for the Sky, but for the WNBA itself.
But the reality was more complicated.
Candace Parker, the legend herself, watched from the sidelines with a mixture of pride, concern, and frustration. She’d seen hype before. She’d lived it. But she also knew the difference between being a star and being a superstar. And that difference, she believed, was measured in sweat, sacrifice, and the quiet work no one ever saw.
One afternoon, as the Sky wrapped up a sluggish practice, Candace lingered by the baseline. She watched Angel, who was laughing with teammates, posing for a selfie, her phone always close at hand. There was an ease about her—some might say an entitlement. Candace wondered if that came from the constant praise, the relentless spotlight, or simply the knowledge that she was the franchise’s chosen face.
Tyler Marsh, the new head coach, approached Candace. He looked tired, his eyes shadowed by the weight of expectations. “She’s got talent,” he said quietly, nodding toward Angel. “But sometimes I feel like I’m coaching a brand, not a player.”
Candace didn’t sugarcoat her response. “You’re not wrong. The media made her a superstar before she played a single pro game. That’s not her fault, but it’s not helping her grow, either.”
Tyler sighed. “I try to push her, but she’s surrounded by people telling her she’s already arrived. It’s hard to get through.”
Candace thought back to her own rookie days. There had been pressure, sure, but nothing like this. Social media hadn’t been a force yet. Endorsements came after you proved yourself, not before.
That evening, Candace joined a podcast to discuss the state of the league. Inevitably, the conversation turned to Angel Reese.
“If you were her coach, what would you tell her to focus on?” the host asked.
Candace was blunt. “First, I’d tell her to block out the noise. Focus on the fundamentals—her footwork, her shot, her defense. She’s got a great coach in Tyler Marsh, but you can’t coach someone who thinks they’ve already made it. The media created a pseudo-star, not a superstar. There’s a difference.”
The host pressed her. “Pseudo-star?”
“Yeah. Pseudo means false, fake. It’s when someone appears to be the real deal but hasn’t done the work yet. Angel’s got potential, but potential isn’t the same as production. She needs to earn it on the court.”
The clip went viral overnight. Fans argued in comment sections. Some defended Angel, saying she was young, that she’d grow into her role. Others echoed Candace’s critique, blaming the organization and the league for putting too much on Angel’s shoulders too soon.
Inside the Sky’s locker room, the mood was tense. Angel saw the headlines, read the comments. She tried to laugh them off, but the words stung. She’d always been confident—some said cocky—but now she felt exposed. Was she really a “fake” superstar? Was everyone just waiting for her to fail?
She looked to her teammates for support, but the chemistry wasn’t there. Veterans grumbled about her attitude. Rookies envied her endorsements. Tyler Marsh tried to rally the team, but every loss made the whispers louder.
One night, after a particularly brutal defeat, Angel stayed late in the gym. For once, there were no cameras, no fans. Just the sound of her own breathing and the steady bounce of the ball. She shot free throws until her arms ached, replaying Candace’s words in her mind.
Candace found her there, alone in the empty gym. She didn’t say anything at first, just rebounded for Angel, passing the ball back over and over.
Finally, Angel broke the silence. “You think I’m a fake.”
Candace shook her head. “I think you’re listening to the wrong people. You’ve got talent, Angel. But talent isn’t enough. The league doesn’t care about your followers or your shoe deal. Out there, all that matters is the work. The grind.”
Angel’s voice trembled. “I feel like everyone’s waiting for me to mess up.”
Candace softened. “Maybe they are. But you get to decide what happens next. You can keep chasing the spotlight, or you can chase greatness. It’s up to you.”
Angel nodded, wiping sweat from her brow. For the first time, she felt the weight of her own expectations—not the ones piled on by the media, but the ones she set for herself.
The next day, Angel showed up early to practice. She listened to Tyler, asked questions, stayed late to work on her defense. It wasn’t a dramatic transformation, but it was a start. The veterans noticed. Slowly, the team’s energy shifted.
The Sky didn’t suddenly become champions. They still lost games, still faced criticism. But Angel’s attitude changed. She stopped talking about endorsements and started talking about rebounds, assists, hustle. She let her game speak for her.
Months passed. The noise died down. Angel wasn’t the league’s biggest star, but she was becoming something better: a real teammate, a real competitor. Candace watched with quiet pride as Angel grew into her role—not a pseudo-star, but a player willing to work for everything she wanted.
In the end, the truth about superstardom wasn’t about hype or headlines. It was about heart. And that, Candace knew, was something no one could fake.
