In the blinding flash of runway lights, Angel Reese strode forward, the picture of confidence. Draped in lingerie for the iconic Victoria’s Secret show, she was every bit the modern supermodel: bold, unapologetic, and celebrated. But for the millions watching, this was not just another brand deal. It was a moment of staggering contradiction, a move so brazen it instantly ignited a firestorm of online debate and accusations of hypocrisy.

This, after all, was the same Angel Reese who, less than two years prior, sat before the world’s cameras, her voice breaking with emotion, and delivered a raw, tearful plea. She was, she claimed, being “unfairly sexualized” and “objectified.” She was the athlete who called out a system that, in her words, valued women’s looks over their talent.

Today, that narrative has not just been questioned; it has been completely shattered. By confidently walking that runway in her underwear, Angel Reese has, according to critics, cashed in on the very industry and image she once claimed was breaking her. This isn’t just a fashion moment. It’s the story of how a carefully constructed “victim armor” was publicly dismantled in a single night, leaving behind a trail of broken trust and confused fans.

To understand the sheer scale of this perceived betrayal, one must revisit that infamous 2023 post-game press conference. Following LSU’s national championship victory, Reese became a household name. But with that fame came intense scrutiny. In a moment of vulnerability, she broke down, speaking of death threats and the pain of being sexualized. She wasn’t just an athlete, she argued; she was an image being consumed and objectified against her will.

The impact was immediate and profound. She wasn’t just a basketball player anymore; she was a symbol. Fans, media figures, and cultural commentators rallied behind her. She had become the face of the female athlete fighting back against a system that refused to see her beyond her appearance. She had, in effect, built an unbreachable emotional fortress. Any criticism of her behavior, on or off the court, could be deflected. To critique Angel Reese was to be part of the problem—to be sexist, racist, or simply a “hater” of confident women.

That fortress now lies in ruins. The Victoria’s Secret deal is not just a modeling gig; it’s a high-profile, multi-million dollar partnership with a brand built entirely on the monetization of female sexuality.

The central argument consuming social media is simple: you cannot have it both ways. You cannot spend months cultivating a brand based on the trauma of objectification, only to pivot and profit from that exact form of objectification when the price is right. This, critics argue, is not empowerment. It is calculated opportunism.

This is the hypocrisy that has people shaking their heads. Reese, they claim, has mastered the art of “selective outrage.” She decides when her sexuality is empowerment (like a VS runway) and when it is exploitation (like any criticism she receives online). It’s a classic manipulation tactic: play the victim when it’s convenient, then flip the script to “body positivity” once the check clears.

This controversy is amplified when contrasted with her peers. Take Sophie Cunningham, for example. Cunningham frequently posts swimsuit photos and “owns her femininity,” but she faces virtually no backlash. Why? The answer, according to critics, is consistency. Cunningham has never built her brand on claiming the world is unfairly sexualizing her. She is authentic in her presentation.

Even Reese’s chief rival, Caitlin Clark, serves as a stark contrast. Clark is also building a massive empire, but her brand is built squarely on her generational talent, her on-court achievements, and her authenticity. The criticism of Reese is not that she is a woman embracing her body; it’s that she is a public figure who demanded sympathy for a problem she is now gleefully selling.

This entire episode has shed a harsh light on what many now see as her true priority: brand over ball. While Reese has been busy with photo shoots, red-carpet events, and high-fashion deals, her actual basketball game has reportedly stalled. Commentators point to a game that hasn’t evolved. Her fundamentals are described as lacking, her post-footwork as sloppy, and her jumper as inconsistent.

The brutal online consensus is that the WNBA court is not her passion; it’s her platform. It is a backdrop, a stage to stay relevant enough to fuel the next big brand deal. The game is just a springboard to her real goal: mainstream fame.

This has led to the rise of harsh online commentary, summarizing her trajectory as “From Basketball Barbie to OnlyFans Barbie.” The sentiment, while crude, captures the public feeling that Reese is using the sport simply to promote herself as a “sex symbol” and will discard it once it’s no longer useful.

Perhaps the most tragic casualty in this controversy is the trust of her fans. The people who genuinely empathized with her, who defended her against “trolls,” and who believed she was fighting for a meaningful cause now feel betrayed. They feel their sympathy was exploited. This isn’t just online “hate”; it’s the visceral reaction of a fanbase that feels manipulated. That broken trust is something no brand deal can easily repair.

This is not an isolated incident. Critics point to a clear pattern of opportunism. The “MeiBounds” incident, where Reese allegedly took a concept and phrase from a smaller content creator and trademarked it without credit, is often cited. Whether it’s intellectual property or public sympathy, the playbook appears to be the same: take what benefits you, ignore the ethics, and brand it as your own.

Angel Reese did not get canceled by critics. She canceled herself. By walking that runway, she single-handedly destroyed her own narrative. The shield is gone. She can no longer claim to be a victim of objectification while simultaneously being one of its highest-paid proponents.

She now stands at a crossroads. The game she was playing—crying foul when convenient, celebrating fame when profitable—ended the moment those Victoria’s Secret lights hit her. She can no longer hide behind the armor she built. The mask has slipped, and the public has finally seen what lies beneath. The question that remains, the one being asked in every corner of the internet, is simple: How long before she exits the WNBA for good?