Page 11 of Hero Daddy

Chad led me through the main training floor, a vast space covered in pristine tatami mats the color of fresh straw. A class was underway on the far side—a dozen students in white uniforms moving through synchronized exercises under another instructor's watchful eye. They paid us no attention as we skirted the edge of the room, but I felt exposed nonetheless, aware of my civilian clothes and untrained body in this temple of discipline.

Chad guided me toward a quieter section at the far end of the training floor, partially separated from the main area by a folding screen decorated with Japanese calligraphy. Behind the screen, a small matted area offered privacy without completeisolation—I could still hear the rhythmic sounds of training, but they seemed distant, muffled.

A low wooden bench ran along one wall, flanked by a small water cooler and a neatly stacked pile of clean towels. The wall above the bench displayed framed certificates and what looked like old photos of martial artists from another era. The space felt intimate but not claustrophobic.

"This is where I do initial assessments and private instruction," Chad explained, gesturing for me to sit on the bench. "It helps people feel less intimidated when they're starting out."

He moved to the water cooler, filled two paper cups, and handed one to me. I took the cup, our fingers brushing briefly. His were warm and slightly rough, the hands of someone who worked with his body rather than behind a desk.

Chad sat beside me on the bench, leaving a respectful distance between us.

“So,” he said. “You called me today.”

“I did.”

“What made you call me?”

The simple directness of the question made it easier to answer. "Because I'm tired of being afraid," I said. "Since the park . . . I can't sleep. I keep seeing his face. And yesterday, those men on the street—they weren't even doing anything really, just being jerks, but it made me feel so . . ." I struggled for the right word. "Helpless. Again."

Chad nodded once, a small gesture of understanding that encouraged me to continue.

"It's not just since the attack," I found myself saying, the words coming faster now, tumbling out like water through a broken dam. "It's always been like this. I've always felt . . . vulnerable. Out of place. Like I'm taking up too much space but somehowinvisible at the same time." I risked a glance at him, then quickly away. "I know that probably sounds crazy."

"Not at all," Chad said, his voice steady and sure. "Many people feel that way. Society sends mixed messages about how much space we're allowed to occupy."

The simple validation—that my feelings weren't irrational, that I wasn't alone in them—loosened something in my chest.

"I've never been athletic," I continued, my voice dropping slightly, shame coloring the words. "I was always the last one picked for teams in school. Always the one who couldn't climb the rope in gym class or run the mile without getting winded." My fingers tightened around the paper cup, crumpling it slightly. "And I'm not . . . I mean, I'm not built like those women out there." I gestured vaguely toward the main training floor, where several female students moved with graceful power, their bodies lean and strong.

"I've always told myself that's why I never tried anything like this. Because I wasn't the right type. Because I'd look ridiculous. Because everyone would stare." The words were coming from a place I rarely acknowledged, even to myself. "But after what happened in the park, I realized maybe I've been using that as an excuse. Maybe I've been letting fear make my decisions for me."

Chad hadn't moved, hadn't interrupted. He simply listened. The intensity of his focus could have made me uncomfortable, but instead, it made me feel seen in a way I rarely experienced.

"I want to feel strong," I whispered, admitting a desire I'd barely acknowledged to myself. "Not just physically. I want to walk down the street without scanning for threats. I want to feel like I belong in my own skin." I paused, then added in a voice so soft it was barely audible, "I want to stop being afraid all the time."

When I finally fell silent, emotionally exhausted from the confession, Chad remained quiet for a moment longer, as ifensuring I had said everything I needed to say. Then he spoke, his voice steady and firm, the kind of tone that expected to be believed.

"There is no 'type' for jujitsu, Daliah," he said. "It wasn't designed for naturally athletic people. It was designed for smaller individuals to defend against larger opponents. It's about leverage, technique, and using your opponent's force against them." He looked directly into my eyes, his gaze unwavering. "The women you see out there, the ones who move with such confidence? Most of them looked exactly like you when they first walked through those doors."

I wanted to believe him. Desperately. But a lifetime of ingrained insecurity doesn't disappear with a few reassuring words, no matter how convincingly delivered.

"I'd slow everyone down," I said. "I'd need everything explained twice. I'd be the worst student you've ever had."

A ghost of a smile touched Chad's lips, surprising me. "I once taught a seventy-eight-year-old grandmother with a hip replacement. She complained the entire time and cursed like a sailor, but she stuck with it until she could perform a basic hip throw on her forty-year-old son." The memory softened his features, making him look younger for a moment. "She's still training, three years later. Earned her blue belt last month. Still curses, mind you."

The image was so unexpected, so at odds with my perception of martial arts, that I couldn't help returning his smile. "Really?"

"Really," he confirmed. "Jujitsu isn't about being the fastest or the strongest. It's about understanding principles—center of gravity, momentum, balance. It's as much mental as physical."

He shifted slightly on the bench, turning more fully toward me, his knee almost but not quite touching mine. "The most important muscle you train here," he said, tapping his temple lightly with one finger, "is this one. What you did in the park,trying to fight back? That took real courage. That's a strong foundation to build on, Little One."

The unexpected endearment, so soft and natural on his lips, made my heart skip a beat. Little One. It should have felt patronizing from a man I barely knew, but instead, it wrapped around me like a warm blanket, making me feel oddly cherished under his powerful regard.

"You think so?" I asked, hating how small and uncertain my voice sounded.

"I know so," Chad replied with calm certainty. "Fighting back when you're terrified takes a kind of strength many trained fighters never develop. Technical skills can be taught. That instinct to protect yourself, even against overwhelming odds—that's harder to instill."

His validation, his gentle guidance, created a warm glow in my chest, a sense of being truly seen that was so unfamiliar it almost hurt. For a moment, I couldn't speak, overcome by a rush of emotion I couldn't quite name.

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