Page 14 of Hero Daddy

"I want to learn," I said, the words emerging with more conviction than I'd expected. "Everything you can teach me."

Something flickered in Chad's eyes—a heat that had nothing to do with physical exertion. For a moment, the air between us felt charged, heavy with unspoken possibilities that went beyond student and teacher. Then he blinked, and the professional mask slipped back into place, though not completely.

"First step," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me. "The rest is just practice. I'll be here to guide you."

The promise in his voice was absolute, a vow I knew instinctively he wouldn't break. His steady gaze held mine, and in that moment, I felt something shift inside me—a realignment of something fundamental, like tumblers in a lock finally clicking into place.

Chapter 3

Threedayshadpassedsince my introductory session with Chad, and I'd spent them vacillating between anticipation and terror. Each morning, I'd checked the bruise on my shoulder and practiced the wrist escape in my bathroom mirror, my movements stiff and uncertain without Chad's guiding hands. I hadn't told a soul at Glimmer about my decision. Trina would make it into a joke, and Mrs. Henderson would give me that condescending look that said "how adorable" without needing words. This was mine—my secret, my challenge, my chance to become someone stronger.

But now I was back for my second session.

The academy was quieter today than during my last visit. No class occupied the main training floor, just a couple of students in white uniforms practicing in pairs, their movements fluid and purposeful.

Chad appeared in the doorway to the main training floor before I'd even set my bag down. He wore a crisp black uniform—a gi, I remembered from my frantic late-night research—belted with what looked like well-worn black fabric. The starkcolor emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the compact power of his frame. His gaze swept over me, taking in my workout clothes—leggings and a loose t-shirt again.

"Right on time. I like it," he said, that hint of approval in his voice that made my spine straighten automatically. "Follow me."

I trailed behind him across the main training floor, conscious of the experienced students who glanced our way. Did they see what I saw—their commanding instructor leading a soft, untrained woman to what would undoubtedly be her humiliation? Or did they just see another beginner, unremarkable and forgettable?

The small, semi-private area behind the decorative screen waited for us, the tatami mats pristine and inviting.

"We'll start with warm-ups," Chad said, setting a small digital timer on the bench. "Jumping jacks, thirty seconds."

I blinked at the abruptness, but his expectant look had me scrambling into position. The jumping jacks seemed simple enough at first, but by fifteen seconds, my breathing had quickened. By twenty-five, my thighs burned. When the timer beeped, relief flooded through me.

"High knees, thirty seconds," Chad continued without pause, demonstrating the movement with mechanical precision.

I mimicked him, lifting my knees as high as I could manage, which wasn't nearly as high as his. Twenty seconds in, my lungs protested. By thirty, sweat beaded along my hairline.

"Prisoner squats, thirty seconds."

And so it went—mountain climbers, plank holds, lateral shuffles—each exercise flowing into the next with barely a moment's rest. My face flushed, my t-shirt dampened, and my muscles trembled with the unfamiliar exertion.

After four minutes that felt like forty, Chad called, "Rest," and I bent forward, hands on my knees, gulping air.

"I thought . . . we were . . . learning self-defense," I panted, immediately regretting the complaint when his eyebrow arched.

"We are," he said simply. "A fight might last much longer than four minutes. You need to be able to execute techniques while your heart is racing and your muscles are burning. Fitness is foundational."

I straightened, embarrassed. Of course. This wasn't a dance class; it was preparation for something deadly serious. My body might be protesting, but that was the point—to push past that protest when it mattered.

"Now," Chad continued, "we begin with the most important skill—how to fall safely."

He demonstrated a backward breakfall, his body dropping to the mat with controlled precision, his arm slapping the surface just as he made contact. The sound echoed sharply in our secluded space.

"The arm slap disperses impact energy," he explained. "It protects your head and spine. Watch again."

He performed the movement once more, slower this time, breaking it down into its components. It looked simple enough when he did it—a smooth descent, a perfect slap, a body relaxed upon impact.

"Your turn," he said, moving to stand beside me. "I'll support you through the first few."

His hand came to rest lightly between my shoulder blades, steady and reassuring. Still, terror seized me as I tried to lower myself backward.

"I can't," I said, my body refusing to willingly fall. "I don't—"

"You can," he countered, his voice firm but not unkind. "I won't let you get hurt. Trust the process, Daliah."

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