Courtney Vandersloot didn’t look like someone easing back into action after a two-week absence. She looked like a point guard hell-bent on issuing a reminder about hierarchy—especially to a rookie who spent her own time away vowing to dominate the moment she returned.

Angel Reese had used every microphone during her four-game “excessive-contact” suspension to promise that the Chicago Sky would rally around her energy, her rebounding, her edge.

Vandersloot, rejoining the New York Liberty after nursing a bruised hip, offered no pre-game sound bites at all. She saved every response for the hardwood, and by the final buzzer of an 88-73 Liberty win, Reese’s rhetoric felt like a distant echo drowned out by the hum of Vandersloot’s surgical command.

The storyline almost wrote itself. Reese’s suspension, stemming from a flagrant-two elbow to a driving wing, had dominated WNBA talk shows for eleven straight days.

Debate raged about whether the penalty was too harsh, whether the league protected its stars with a double standard, whether the physical brand Reese embraced would be legislated out of existence.

When the rookie finally took the floor again, she drew a sellout crowd that included equal parts supporters and skeptics. Across the aisle Vandersloot waited—thirteen seasons of playoff scars, a 2021 championship ring, and the well-earned reputation as the most cerebral floor general of her generation.

From tip-off she attacked Reese’s weak spots without mercy. On Chicago’s first offensive trip, Vandersloot cheated off her own assignment and slid into a passing lane Reese telegraphed from the top of the key.

Swipe, steal, and a lead-pass touchdown to Breanna Stewart for an uncontested layup. The message arrived before Reese even reached half-court: welcome back, but we’ve been studying your film. Moments later Vandersloot used a high ball screen to force a switch that left Reese momentarily stranded on an island.

A lightning stutter-step and a pocket pass to Jonquel Jones produced a layup and an and-one. Reese clenched her fists, visibly annoyed, already saddled with a minus-six plus-minus barely three minutes into her comeback.

The Sky tried to reset by funneling their offense through Reese’s bread and butter—offensive rebounds. Vandersloot had other plans. Each time a Chicago guard fired an off-target jumper, Vandersloot boxed out the rookie with textbook leverage, bumping just enough to deny runway without risking a whistle.

The physical back-and-forth was subtle but unmistakable: veteran strength versus youthful aggression, craft versus raw power. Reese managed to secure five first-half boards but none of them translated into second-chance points, largely because Vandersloot was already directing Liberty defenders to shrink the paint and close escape valves.

Offensively, Vandersloot turned the game into a masterclass. She probed the Sky’s drop coverage until they switched to hedging; then she sliced them with pocket passes to Stewart.

When Chicago rotated smaller, she fed Jones in deep position. She even sprinkled in two pull-up threes—shots she normally takes only when defenders disrespect her range—simply because Reese hesitated on the close-out.

By halftime Vandersloot had tallied ten assists against zero turnovers, and the Liberty led 49-35. Reese’s line read four points, two fouls, no free throws attempted.

In the tunnel heading to the locker room, cameras caught Reese shaking her head, mouthing, “I’m good, I’m good,” as teammates coaxed her to stay composed.

Sky coach Teresa Weatherspoon delivered a fiery halftime talk about matching intensity, but the second half brought more Vandersloot orchestration. One sequence encapsulated the evening: Reese tried to meet Stewart at the nail as Vandersloot dribbled left.

Instead of the expected pick-and-roll, Vandersloot threw a no-look bounce pass behind her back to a back-cutting Betnijah Laney. Reese froze for a millisecond—just long enough for Laney to score and for the crowd to erupt. The rookie slapped the stanchion in frustration.

Tempers finally flashed with 5:18 left in the third. Reese, fighting through another screen, hip-checked Vandersloot near mid-court. The whistle blew, players bumped chests, and referees stepped in before anything escalated.

Vandersloot, expression flat, simply pointed to the scoreboard. The Liberty sank the technical free throw; Reese was visibly stewing. She picked up her fourth personal moments later and had to sit, her night effectively neutralized.

Meanwhile Vandersloot kept threading needles. By the start of the fourth quarter she was flirting with a triple-double—12 points, 14 assists, eight rebounds—and Chicago’s deficit had swelled to 21.

Weatherspoon reinserted Reese to spark a late push, but the momentum never materialized. Vandersloot controlled pace like a metronome, milking possessions, directing teammates with a single raised eyebrow, letting seconds drip away until the Sky had no mathematical route back.

When Reese fouled out on a charge with 2:37 remaining, she walked straight to the bench, towel over her head. Vandersloot stayed on the floor long enough to complete her triple-double—two more boards in the final minute—before Liberty coach Sandy Brondello subbed her out to a standing ovation.

Final numbers: Vandersloot 12-16-10 on 6-for-9 shooting; Reese 8-7-6 with five fouls and 3-for-10 from the field. Beyond the box score, the veteran’s controlled dominance made a louder statement than any sideline quote ever could.

Post-game media scrums told two different stories. Reese, eyes red but voice steady, admitted the learning curve felt steeper than anticipated. “I let them take me out of my game,” she said. “That can’t happen.” Vandersloot, when asked about her approach to defending Reese, kept it concise: “Rookies talk.

We play.” She credited her teammates, praised Stewart’s finishing, and shrugged off questions about putting anyone “in their place.” Yet the subtext was clear: Reese’s suspension saga had dominated headlines, but on the court the league still runs through savvy veterans who’ve seen every defensive scheme and emotional ploy imaginable.

Social media erupted, predictably dividing into camps. Reese supporters argued she was rusty, targeted by refs, still shaking off suspension rhythm. Vandersloot fans circulated highlight reels of no-look feeds with captions like “Class dismissed.”

Analysts debated whether Chicago’s offense overly relies on Reese’s second-chance points and if Liberty’s blueprint provided the rest of the league a roadmap. One clip of Vandersloot boxing out Reese garnered five million views in twelve hours, with commentators labeling it “the tutorial every young forward needs.”

What emerges from the noise is a reminder of professional basketball’s unforgiving hierarchy. The WNBA thrives on incoming personalities—Reese, Clark, Cardoso—but rookies must navigate counters devised by vets who’ve endured a decade of adjustments.

Reese’s suspension may have magnified scrutiny, but Vandersloot’s response would’ve been identical even if the rookie entered on a hot streak. That’s the veteran’s creed: exploit weaknesses, impose tempo, win the game.

For the Liberty, the victory solidifies their hold on second place and injects confidence after a shaky stretch without Vandersloot. For the Sky, it’s a gut check.

Their playoff hopes hinge on Reese not just grabbing boards but dictating physical terms without fouling or being baited into frustration. The rematch looms in two weeks; expect Reese to review hours of film on Vandersloot’s box-out angles and passing fakes.

Until then, this matchup will linger in highlight packages and debate shows. Fans will dissect whether Vandersloot truly “put Reese in her place” or merely capitalized on a rusty opponent.

Reese will craft her comeback narrative, Vandersloot will quietly accumulate assists, and the league will continue to benefit from a clash that marries old-school savvy with new-school swagger.

Because in women’s basketball—as in every pro sport—respect isn’t handed over in press conferences; it’s earned possession by possession, screen by screen, and, sometimes, in the precise geometry of a veteran point guard boxing out a rookie phenom on national television.