Page 44 of Hero Daddy

TheairintheOak Haven Community Sports Center vibrated with a strange mix of sweat, anticipation, and the squeaky sound of bare feet on mats. I adjusted my white gi for the tenth time, my fingers trembling slightly against the stiff cotton. Two months of intensive training had led to this moment—my first jiu-jitsu tournament—yet no amount of practice could have prepared me for the swarm of butterflies currently staging a rebellion in my stomach.

All around me, fighters stretched, practiced takedowns with partners, or sat in quiet meditation. Some looked as nervous as I felt, while others projected the easy confidence of experience. The "Oak Haven Open" wasn't a major competition by national standards, but in our small community, it was a big deal—and stepping onto those mats would be the most public thing I'd done in years.

"Breathe, Daliah," I whispered to myself, mimicking Chad's steady, reassuring tone. The thought of him centered meinstantly. Two months ago, I couldn't have imagined being here, couldn't have pictured myself willingly signing up to grapple with strangers while an audience watched. But two months with Chad had changed everything—not just my fighting skills, but my entire life.

I spotted him across the warm-up area, talking to another instructor, his black belt marking him as one of the senior practitioners present. Even from a distance, his presence felt like a tether, a point of stability in the chaotic energy of the pre-tournament rush. I felt a small smile tug at my lips as I remembered waking up beside him that morning, in our bed, in our home.

Moving in together had happened almost organically. After that night in the nursery, I'd spent more and more time at his house, first keeping a toothbrush there, then some clothes, until one day Chad had simply said, "Your lease is up next month. Stay with me instead." Not a question, not really, but his eyes had held a vulnerability that said he needed my answer anyway.

The past two months had built a rhythm between us—morning coffee shared on his—our—back porch, me curled into the crook of his arm as we watched the birds at the feeder he'd installed "because you like them." Training sessions at the academy, where he was still demanding, still pushed me to my limits, but where his pride in my progress shone through every correction. Evenings that shifted between intense play in the discipline room, soft comfort in the nursery, and nights of passion so deep they left me breathless.

This morning had been no different, despite the tournament looming ahead. Chad had woken first, as always, and brought me coffee in bed—a ritual he maintained regardless of the day's agenda. While I'd sipped the perfectly prepared brew (just the right amount of cream and sugar), he'd checked my competition bag one last time, making sure my gi was properly packed, thatI had enough water and snacks. His quiet efficiency had calmed my fluttering nerves, his certainty in my readiness a balm to my doubts.

I twisted at the waist, testing the mobility of my gi. The uniform still felt strange sometimes, the canvas material stiffer than my everyday clothes, but there was something empowering about wearing it—like stepping into a version of myself that was stronger, more capable. My body had changed somewhat over these months of training. I was still curvy, still soft in places where society might prefer angles, but my muscles had developed a new definition, my stamina had improved dramatically, and I carried myself with a confidence that came from knowing what my body could do rather than obsessing over how it looked.

Chad approached, his stride purposeful as he navigated through the crowded warm-up area. My heart did a little skip at the sight of him—this powerful, controlled man who had seen every part of me, who had helped me discover depths I'd never known existed, who had shown me I was worthy exactly as I was.

"Almost time," he said, his voice pitched low for my ears alone. His hands moved to my belt, making a small adjustment, tucking it more securely. The simple act was so familiar now—his fingers skilled and certain against my waist, the care he took in presenting me at my best. "How are you feeling?"

"Terrified," I admitted, no point hiding it from him. "But . . . ready, I think."

His mouth quirked in that half-smile I'd come to treasure. "Good. The nerves mean you care." His hands moved to my shoulders, turning me slightly to face him fully. "Remember everything I've taught you, Little One," he murmured, his voice dropping to that register that always made my insides melt, that perfect blend of authority and affection. "Breathe. Trust yourtraining. Daddy knows how incredibly strong his little fighter is. You've got this."

His words flowed through me, seeping into all the cold, doubtful places. There was no condescension in them, no empty reassurance—just his absolute belief in me, in what I could do.

He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to my temple, his lips warm against my skin. The gesture was subtly possessive, a claiming that was appropriate even in this public space. I closed my eyes briefly, drawing strength from the contact.

"Division three, white belts, you have ten minutes until your first matches," called an official, clipboard in hand. "Please check the board for your assignments."

I swallowed hard, nodding at Chad. "I should go look."

His hand squeezed my shoulder once more. "You're going to be amazing," he said, and the certainty in his voice made it sound like simple fact rather than encouragement. "Win or lose, you're already braver than most people will ever be."

***

"DaliahMilesandMarcusEricson to mat three. Miles and Ericson to mat three." The announcer's voice crackled through the speakers, and my heart lodged somewhere between my throat and my eardrums. This was it. My legs felt disconnected from my body as I walked toward the blue square, aware of Chad's steady presence following at a respectful distance, positioning himself where I could see him from the mat.

I took my place at the edge of the competition area, bowing before stepping onto the mat as Chad had taught me. Across from me, my opponent did the same—a tall, wiry man with the ranginess of a distance runner and a face set in casual confidence. Marcus Ericson, according to the announcement.White belt like me, but something in his ease told me he had more experience.

He sized me up as we approached the center, and I caught the slight quirk of his mouth, the fractional relaxation of his shoulders. He'd taken one look at my curvy frame and feminine face and had already decided this match wouldn't challenge him. Two months ago, that dismissal would have crushed me, confirmed every insecurity. Today, something flickered inside me—not quite anger, but determination. Chad had taught me that being underestimated could be a tactical advantage.

The referee gestured us forward. We bowed to each other, and then his hand chopped down. "Fight!"

Ericson moved immediately, aggressively, stepping in to grab the lapels of my gi. He was quick, I'd give him that. His hands secured a grip before I could establish mine, and he immediately tried to off-balance me with a foot sweep. I stumbled slightly but remembered Chad's endless drills on maintaining my base. I widened my stance, lowered my center, and resisted the momentum he tried to create.

Panic fluttered in my chest as Ericson shifted his weight, clearly setting up for a more forceful throw. But then, as if he stood right beside me, I heard Chad's voice: "Use your center of gravity. Leverage. Control the distance."

The instruction grounded me. I adjusted my grip on Ericson's gi, not fighting his superior height but using it to manipulate his balance. He tried to pull me forward into another sweep, but I was ready, moving with the pull just enough to avoid the trap while maintaining my own stability.

Frustration flickered across his face. He hadn't expected resistance. He changed tactics, attempting a more direct approach with a shoulder throw. As he turned his back to me, trying to load me onto his hip, I recognized the movement from countless practice sessions. My body responded before my mindfully processed—I dropped my weight, creating an immovable base that disrupted his timing.

Ericson grunted, clearly annoyed now. His next attempt was more forceful, less technical—an attempt to simply muscle me off my feet. But now I was fully in the match, fear transforming into the focused flow state Chad had described during training. "The body remembers what the mind forgets under pressure," he'd said. "Trust your training."

I trusted it now, feeling a clarity descend as I saw Ericson telegraph his next move. He was coming in for a high collar grip, planning to control my upper body. But the slight shift of his weight to his front foot created an opening I recognized instantly. This was it—the moment to counter.

As he reached for my collar, I dropped, secured my grip on his sleeve and lapel, and pivoted my body. The hip throw—the very technique I had once despaired of mastering—flowed through me with a perfect economy of movement. I turned my back to him, dropped my center below his, and used his forward momentum to lift and redirect his weight over my hip.

For a suspended moment, I felt Ericson's weight float above me, his balance completely compromised. Then gravity took over, and he crashed to the mat with a satisfying thud that vibrated through the floor. The small crowd erupted in surprised applause—they'd seen what I had: the smaller competitor executing a textbook throw against a larger opponent.

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