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Sparring was a form of therapy for me, and the difference I was making in the lives of motivated kids and adults mirrored the impact it had on mine.

Twenty more minutes flew by as we finished up the session, and I swiped my forearm across my hairline as I gave him an accomplished nod. “Good job. Big improvement from last week.”

“Yeah?” Scotty grinned, hands planting on his hips, breaths measured. “I’ve been practicing. My dad set up a punching bag in the garage.”

“I can tell. Just remember, it’s all about the mindset.” I grabbed a clean towel to dry my face before tossing him one of his own. We both reached for our water bottles and took a swig as the adrenaline petered out. “I can teach you every technique in the world, but it’s nothing without confidence. You second-guessed yourself a few times.”

His flushed cheeks puffed out as he exhaled a breath. “I’m working on that. Why does it feel impossible?”

I leaned against the studio wall, my head tilting as I studied him. He was gangly, close to six-feet tall, with shaggy brown hair and a gnarly scar inching up from his upper lip. “Confidence is like a muscle,” I told him. “It needs consistent exercise. The more you practice, the stronger it becomes. It’s not about eliminating self-doubt entirely—it’s about pushing through it.”

Scotty chugged down the rest of his water and fisted the empty bottle in his hand, the plastic crinkling. “What can I do to strengthen that muscle? There’s always this stupid fear that creeps in, no matter how focused I try to be.”

I gestured to the mats. “Start by visualizing the win. Before you even throw a punch, see yourself executing the techniques. Flawlessly. Build that mental image of yourself as a capable defender. It makes a world of difference when you step onto the mats.”

His expression turned thoughtful as he sighed. “Yeah, I’ll keep working on that.”

“Progress is a journey, not a destination.” I stepped forward and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re doing good. Keep at it, and you’ll see the difference.”

“Thanks, Coach Madsen.” Scotty swept past me, heading for his duffel bag before waving me off with a goodbye. “See you next week.”

“Yep.”

The sound of the heavy door closing echoed through the studio, and my eyes lingered as I licked a stray dollop of sweat from my upper lip.

Scotty was a good kid, and his story had left me rattled.

He’d been jumped by four teenagers on a suburban sidewalk while taking his little sister trick-or-treating last Halloween. Thankfully, his sister had run off to get help and avoided injury, but Scotty had been brutalized, left sprawled and unconscious on someone’s front lawn.

The assailants had been quickly captured and brought into custody, determined to have been high on something.

Their motive for the attack?

They’d wanted his sister’s fucking candy pail.

The absurdity of the reasoning had left me sickened. Scotty’s injuries had been severe—internal bleeding, scarring on his face and torso, and a grade-three concussion that’d confined him to a hospital bed for weeks. In the past, I’d been trained to separate personal interest from my profession. Now, in this new line of work, I was able to harness empathy and education, offering his parents the assurance that I would provide self-defense courses for Scotty at no cost.

When he’d walked into my studio in December, his drive had been palpable. I found fulfillment in knowing I was contributing to his recovery, offering a tool to rebuild his sense of security.

I’d been in his shoes.

I understood.

Running my fingers through my still-damp hair, I slung the towel over one shoulder and sauntered over to the far wall to snatch up my keys and wallet. Although my work shift had ended, the self-defense session complete, there was one final commitment awaiting me.

As the clock approached six p.m., I smiled, tossing my keys in the air before pushing through the main door and into the crisp winter night.

I had a dinner date with my favorite girl.

“Hey, Reed.”

Whitney leaned in for a hesitant hug the moment the bright-blue door swung open. I teetered on the front stoop with a bouquet of roses for Tara as my other arm loosely wrapped around my ex-girlfriend. “Hey, Whit. Smells good in there.”

“We have a great chef tonight.” When she pulled away, a smile teased her lips. “Come inside. Tara’s really been looking forward to dinner.”

I followed her through the threshold as sauteed garlic and rosemary wafted under my nose. The house looked the same. Lots of blue pops and splashes, thanks to my daughter, and a coastal, nautical theme reminiscent of the years they’d spent living near the beach in Charleston before laying roots back here at home, just outside of Chicago.

Photographs decorated the walls, featuring one of my favorite pictures of Tara. She was three or four at the time, perched at the top of a big red slide as her little hands reached for the sky, her smile stretched just as wide. I stared at the image for a few beats, memorizing her light-brown pigtails and crooked grin, lost in the reverie. Craving the innocence and magic that had come along with early childhood.

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