For every superstar who explodes onto the professional stage, there are a dozen talented players fighting for oxygen, trapped in a system that doesn’t see them. Kate Martin was drowning.

Just months after playing in front of sold-out arenas, leading the Iowa Hawkeyes to a second straight Final Four, Martin was a ghost. Her rookie season with the Las Vegas Aces—a team built on a dynasty of superstars—was not a learning curve; it was a slow-motion demotion. The dream had soured. Her career was stalling before it ever began.

In six crucial playoff games, Martin played a total of three minutes. Three. It wasn’t just a snub; it was a message. In Las Vegas, under the towering shadow of A’Ja Wilson and a veteran core that hogged every meaningful minute, Kate Martin wasn’t part of the plan.

She was the same player who, alongside Caitlin Clark, had flipped the world of college basketball on its axis. But on that bench, confidence shattered, she began to wonder if she even belonged. At her lowest point, she did what she had always done when she needed clarity. She called Caitlin Clark.

That single conversation, and the five simple words Clark told her, would not only change her perspective—it would save her career.

To understand the crash, you must first understand the climb. At Iowa, Martin wasn’t a sidekick; she was the system. While Clark was the “flash”—the logo threes, the viral highlights, the generational talent rewriting record books—Martin was the “foundation.” She was the quiet power, the “glue” that held the entire machine together.

When Clark joined the Hawkeyes as a freshman, Martin admits she was skeptical. “I was like, ‘Oh, this girl thinks she’s going to come here and rule the world,’” Martin recalled. “And there she did, came in right away and ruled the world.”

But instead of competing, they connected. Martin, two years older, became the calming presence, the leader who built “relationship equity.” She was the one who could speak to Clark when no one else could, the one who did the dirty work that never made the highlight reels. She set the screens that freed Clark for impossible shots. She rotated defensively to cover for Clark’s aggressive gambles. She was the balance.

Her stats were far from a role player’s. In that final season, she averaged 13.1 points and nearly seven rebounds. But her greatest strength was her maturity. She understood that her job wasn’t to outshine Clark, but to elevate her.

Their masterpiece was the 2023 Final Four. Facing the undefeated, seemingly invincible South Carolina Gamecocks, Iowa pulled off a stunner that shook the sport. For Martin, that win remains the pinnacle. “That was incredible,” she said. “That’s like still probably my career highlight.” It was a moment that proved their chemistry—Kate’s grit and Caitlin’s fire—was a force that could topple giants. They shared a basketball telepathy, an ecosystem of trust.

Then came the WNBA, a league that has little time for chemistry experiments.

Martin thought that Iowa magic—the toughness, the chemistry, the high-IQ play—would translate. Instead, she hit a “brick wall” in Las Vegas. The Aces drafted her, but what came next felt like a betrayal.

The WNBA is a different beast. “The physicality, speed, smart players,” Martin explained. “I’m just thinking back to like New York… they’re massive.” But this wasn’t just a struggle to adapt. This was a structural lockout.

The Aces, led by coach Becky Hammon, were a top-heavy dynasty. Veterans like Wilson and Chelsea Gray controlled the rotation. Rookies weren’t nurtured; they were placeholders. Martin’s playing time tells the story: in May, a respectable 20 minutes per game. By September, it was just 11.5. Her production cratered.

Those numbers, however, didn’t reflect a lack of talent. They reflected a lack of opportunity. The confidence she had built at Iowa, the poise that defined her, was being systematically stripped away. Not by her performance, but by politics.

“It’s really, really hard to come off the bench… in a limited amount of time and be really impactful,” Martin reflected. “It at times it’s more impressive than the star player who just has that ultra green light.”

She was being buried, and she knew it. The playoff disappearing act—three total minutes—was the final confirmation. She was disposable. The rejection was profound. “As an athlete… it’s kind of hard not to be like, ‘Oh, they didn’t want me,’” she admitted. It felt like a failure.

That’s when she called Clark.

Caitlin was dealing with her own brutal learning curve in Indiana—the physicality, the pressure, the weight of being the league’s new face. But when Kate explained how she was being suffocated in Vegas, Clark didn’t offer sympathy. She offered clarity.

She instantly recognized what was wrong. It wasn’t Kate’s talent. It was her environment. She told Kate exactly what no one else had the courage to say: “You’re not failing. They’re failing you.”

That one sentence reframed everything. Martin’s struggle wasn’t a personal failure; it was a mismatch of epic proportions. She was a collaborative, team-first player trapped in a star-driven, ego-heavy hierarchy. Clark reminded her of what they built at Iowa, of her worth, of her strength. She told her that success isn’t always about grinding harder in a bad situation. Sometimes, it’s about having the courage to find a place that sees your value.

The phone call didn’t just save her career; it reignited her belief.

The lifeline came in the form of the expansion draft. When the Golden State Valkyries selected her, it wasn’t just another roster move. It was an invitation. It was a rebirth.

Vegas saw her as disposable. Golden State saw her as foundational.

Valkyries GM Ohemaa Nyanin and head coach Natalie Nass—who had seen Martin’s work ethic up close in Vegas—knew exactly what they were getting. They weren’t just drafting a forward; they were drafting a culture-setter.

The contrast to Las Vegas could not be more stark. The Valkyries are a blank canvas, a franchise being built from the ground up not on egos, but on collaboration, effort, and intent. Coach Nass’s message was clear: in this system, energy and accountability matter more than perfection.

“It just feels really cool to be part of that history, a part of something so new,” Martin said.

This is what was missing in Vegas. In Golden State, she’s not a backup plan; she’s part of the blueprint. Her role is to be the anchor, to bring that “Iowa glue energy”—the grit, the calm, the unselfishness that allows superstars to thrive. She’s not chasing stats; she’s building trust, one possession, one hustle play, one box-out at a time.

The Golden State fans have already embraced the new team, selling out season tickets and staying loud even during losses. “They stayed the entire time and they cheered us on from the first minute to the last minute,” Martin gushed. “That means a lot.”

Kate Martin’s story is a powerful masterclass in self-belief. It’s a journey that mirrors a truth every professional learns: loyalty to a bad situation is not a virtue. As WNBA legend Sue Bird said, every player needs to find the right system.

The Valkyries didn’t just hand Kate Martin a role; they handed her a purpose. She has gone from the rise of Iowa to the fall in Las Vegas, and now, to a rebirth in the Bay Area. Her escape from the Aces wasn’t a declaration of failure. It was her declaration of independence. And with the courage ignited by an old friend, she’s finally in a place that’s ready to let her build.