When I read that the Vegas Golden Knights had signed Carter Hart after a professional tryout in October, my stomach dropped. As a longtime Las Vegan, I remember the hope the Knights brought to our shaken city after the Oct. 1, 2017, mass shooting. That inaugural season wasn’t just about hockey. The team symbolized unity, resilience and community. I fiercely defended that identity.

But this signing ended my support for the team.

Hart was one of five players from Canada’s 2018 world junior hockey team who stood trial this year for an alleged group sexual assault. The players were acquitted in a judge-alone trial after one mistrial and two dismissed juries. 

Regardless of the verdict, the NHL stated that “the behavior at issue was unacceptable,” temporarily deeming the players ineligible for league play. As a survivor of sexual assault and a public relations professional, I thought the Knights’ press statement on Carter’s signing that emphasized how they were “committed to core values” was infuriating and insultingly vague — a callous strategic deflection. But it clearly communicated this: Power protects power and women’s voices can still be overwritten by strategic spin. Survivor impact wasn’t part of their calculus. 

A week after the statement — and despite public pushback — the Knights handed Hart a $4 million contract. The speed of that decision reflects what goes unchallenged in elite sports: an absence of real accountability for sexual misconduct. And in this case, how public discomfort is smoothed over by a “second chance” narrative.

Due process must be respected. But an acquittal does not prove that harm didn’t occur — something even the NHL underscored. Yet media accounts and online conversations often treat the verdict as a moral clean slate.

The court concluded the victim's evidence was not credible or reliable. The verdict reflects only that her testimony did not meet the criminal burden of proof, not that her experience was false. Trauma, intoxication and fear often disrupt memory and recall, an effect well-documented in psychological research on sexual assault victims. Fragmented or incomplete memory is common in trauma survivors; it is not evidence of dishonesty. 

Consider this: Hart admitted under oath that he was intoxicated. The victim testified that she, too, was drunk and unable to consent. Research shows that trauma or alcohol-related memory gaps in survivors tend to be interrogated as unreliable, while similar impairments in defendants are often forgiven or overlooked. This dynamic is part of what legal scholar Deborah Tuerkheimer calls the credibility gap — our culture’s habit of assigning credibility to powerful men and withholding it from accusers. That deficit does not end in courtrooms. It shapes media coverage, sports league decisions, social media reactions and the way communities respond to survivors.

In Las Vegas, articles about the Knights’ decision followed familiar patterns: descriptions of Hart’s quiet determination at practice, a focus on his “new chapter” with the team or performative hand-wringing that ultimately seems dismissive. While not total fluff pieces, these articles generally humanize Hart and supportive fans, but do not do the same for the victim. Nor do they reach out to sexual assault organizations or engage fans who found Carter’s signing problematic or triggering.

This imbalance — emotion and depth for the accused, anonymity and distance for survivors — is part of what keeps gendered violence invisible. It teaches audiences whose stories we’re meant to feel deeply and whose we’re meant to forget.

Fear of not being believed is among the top reasons victims don’t report. That fear is justified. According to the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network, 98 percent of perpetrators of sexual assault never see jail time, and only 1 in 3 victims reports to law enforcement. Among college-aged women — like the victim in this case — 80 percent never report at all.

I was once an accomplished athlete and was sexually assaulted by a professional athlete in my sport. Nobody believed me. For years, Charles Barrett harassed me online and threatened to kill me. His credibility grew, thanks to endorsements by other pro athletes, brands and a community that protected him. Meanwhile, I was ostracized. His reputation mattered. My safety did not.

When Barrett was finally arrested for a public death threat, the district attorney treated me like the problem. Though he was already under federal investigation for another woman’s rape, the DA in my case offered Barrett a plea deal so light I lost hope that I’d ever be safe. Later, alongside other victims, I testified in the other woman’s case. Barrett was convicted in federal court and sentenced to life in prison — a rare outcome.

In 2016, when explaining the naming behind the Vegas-born team, Knights owner Bill Foley said, “The Knight protects the unprotected.” But symbols without integrity are meaningless.

The Golden Knights have built a brand on their mission of unity and community. But in this case, there was no community engagement, conversation with survivors or acknowledgment that the signing might affect fans who have experienced sexual violence.

Foley told the Las Vegas Review-Journal, “If you tolerate mediocrity, your business will be mediocre. I don’t tolerate it.” Yet when given the chance to reimagine how a sensitive announcement like this could be handled, he chose to do the same old thing: ignore the issue and survivors. 

Real accountability requires acknowledgment of harm, transparency and personal reckoning. There has been no indication that Hart has engaged in any meaningful self-reflection, education or outreach to survivor communities. And yet he was rewarded with a multimillion-dollar contract.

This lightning-fast redemption arc is the status quo in professional sports. It leaves survivors watching institutions rush to rehabilitate a man’s career while ignoring the costs of sexual violence.

The Knights’ choice to sign Hart — and the way they handled it — reinforces what women and girls have been told for generations: Protecting a man’s future takes precedence over acknowledging harm done to a woman. It asks survivors to stay silent so that everyone else can stay comfortable. And it contributes to a long legacy of minimizing and normalizing the abuse of women.

Stephanie Forté is a public relations strategist and freelance writer based in Las Vegas. The views expressed here are her own and do not reflect the views of her clients or any other organization with which the author is affiliated.