Page 15 of Hero Daddy

I took a breath, then another. His hand remained steady against my back, a promise of safety. I bent my knees slightlyand allowed myself to tip backward, fighting every instinct that screamed at me to catch myself.

Chad's other hand caught my upper arm, guiding me down. "Chin tucked," he instructed. "Round your back. Arm out, palm down. Slap as you land."

My descent was anything but graceful. I hit the mat with a soft thud, my arm slap coming a second too late, the impact jolting up my spine despite the mat's forgiving surface.

"Again," Chad said, helping me to my feet. "This time, slap earlier."

The second attempt was marginally better. The third, slightly less terrible. By the sixth repetition, exhaustion battled with frustration as I failed to achieve anything resembling Chad's fluid technique.

"Your body is fighting you," he observed, his tone clinically detached. "It's programmed for self-preservation. You're asking it to override that programming. That takes repetition."

We moved on to side breakfalls, then forward rolls. With each new technique, my body found new ways to resist, new muscles to stiffen when they should relax. The mat, soft as it was, seemed to grow harder with each impact. A dull ache settled into my hip where I'd landed awkwardly more than once.

"You're thinking too much," Chad noted after a particularly clumsy forward roll left me sprawled inelegantly on the mat. "Your brain is getting in your body's way."

I pushed myself up, blowing a strand of hair from my face. "My brain is trying to keep my body from breaking its neck."

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly—not quite a smile, but close. "Your neck is fine. I wouldn't let you break it."

Something in his tone, in the absolute certainty of his statement, made warmth bloom in my chest despite my discomfort. He wouldn't let me get hurt. I believed him.

After twenty minutes of falls and rolls that left my body feeling like one massive bruise, Chad called for a water break. I sank gratefully onto the bench, gulping from my bottle. He remained standing, his posture perfect despite the intensive demonstration he'd just performed. He wasn't even breathing hard.

"Now we'll revisit the wrist escape from last time," he said once I'd caught my breath. "Then add a new technique."

He extended his hand, and I placed my wrist in his grip, the position already familiar. I rotated my arm against his thumb, stepping to create space as I'd practiced in my bathroom mirror. His grip released easily.

"Better," he said, the single word sending a ridiculous surge of pride through me. "Again, but I'll resist more."

We repeated the drill with increasing resistance. Each time his fingers closed around my wrist, I felt that same electric awareness, that heightened consciousness of his skin against mine. Each time I broke free, that tiny spark of accomplishment grew.

"Good. Now for something new," Chad said. "This is a standing Kimura lock from a two-handed grab. It's effective when an attacker grabs both your wrists."

He faced me, reaching out to encircle both my wrists with his hands. Even with his gentle instructional grip, I felt the immense strength in his fingers, the potential power he kept carefully restrained.

"When someone grabs both wrists, most people try to pull straight back," he explained. "Instead, you'll step forward, left foot outside my right, and rotate your right arm up and over, creating this shape."

He guided my right arm in a circular motion, bringing it up between us and then down toward his left arm. My bodyfollowed awkwardly, unsure where to position itself as my arm moved through the unfamiliar pattern.

"From here, you trap my left wrist with your left hand," he continued, adjusting my grip. "Then pivot left, applying pressure to my shoulder. In a real situation, this creates pain compliance.”

Something about the way he saidpain compliancemade my heart beat faster.

We moved through the sequence step by step, my limbs clumsy and uncoordinated. Each attempt felt like trying to pat my head while rubbing my stomach—my brain knew what to do, but my body refused to comply.

"No, like this," Chad said for perhaps the tenth time, his patience seemingly endless. He positioned himself behind me, his chest nearly touching my back. One hand wrapped gently around my right wrist, guiding my arm through the proper arc. His other hand rested lightly on my hip, rotating me to the correct angle.

His touch was entirely professional—firm, instructive, without a hint of impropriety—but my skin tingled beneath my damp t-shirt. His breath brushed against my ear as he spoke, explaining the mechanics of leverage and body positioning. I tried to focus on his words rather than the solid warmth of him behind me, the way his hands seemed to dwarf mine.

"You need to control the distance," he said, his voice a low rumble that I felt as much as heard. "Step in closer. Your power comes from proximity."

I bit my lip, then moved as directed, stepping deeper into the technique, my body finally beginning to grasp the movement pattern.

"Now try it on your own," he instructed, moving to face me again, extending both hands to grab my wrists.

I took a breath, visualizing the sequence. Step in, right arm up and over, trap his wrist, pivot left. My execution was far from perfect, but for the first time, the movements flowed together in something approaching the correct order. When I applied the final leverage, Chad allowed his shoulder to rotate slightly, acknowledging the potential effectiveness of the technique.

"Correct," he said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "The angle is still off, but the principle is sound."

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