Page 29 of Hero Daddy

"Thank you for your trust," he said, his voice a low rumbl. "It's a gift I won't take lightly. Now, I believe we have some training timetabled in. See you at the dojo in forty minutes."

My heart pounded in my chest.

***

Isteppedontothetatamimats of Wake's Academy with my heart thrumming in my chest. The main training floor was occupied by a small advanced class, their white gis flashing as they moved through complex throws and takedowns. I skirted the edge of their practice, heading toward the semi-private area where Chad waited, his broad back to me as he arranged training equipment.

He turned at the sound of my approach, and the subtle shift in his expression when he saw me sent a warm flutter through my stomach. He wore his black instructor's gi, the crisp fabric emphasizing the powerful lines of his shoulders and chest, the black belt at his waist a visible symbol of his mastery. In this domain, he was Sensei first—yet the way his eyes tracked overme carried an undercurrent of possession that hadn't been there before.

"You're early," he said, approval warming his tone. "Good."

"I was... eager," I admitted, setting my gym bag on the bench.

Chad's mouth curved in the barest hint of a smile. "So was I."

He moved toward me, his steps measured and deliberate. When he reached me, he took my hands in his, the contact sending a jolt of awareness through me. His calloused fingers wrapped around mine, warm and strong.

"Daliah," he said, his voice lowered for my ears alone, his thumbs stroking my knuckles, "this academy, when you are with me, is a safe space for all parts of you."

I glanced up, surprised by the direct acknowledgment of our dynamic here, in the academy setting.

"If Little Daliah needs to be present," he continued, his gaze steady and certain, "if she needs a moment of reassurance from her Daddy, or if she feels playful or vulnerable during our work, you are not to suppress that. You allow her to be seen by me."

My breath caught at his words, at the explicit permission he was giving me to integrate all aspects of myself even in this formal training environment.

"It is not a distraction," he added, giving my hands a gentle squeeze. "It is part of your strength. Do you understand, Little One?"

The endearment, spoken here in the academy, created a bridge between our private agreement and this public space. I nodded, a lump forming in my throat at the care he was taking to make me feel secure.

"I understand," I whispered.

"Good girl." He released my hands, his voice shifting slightly as he stepped back, instructor mode engaging. "Let's begin with our warm-up. Five minutes, same circuit as last time."

The familiar routine helped settle my nerves—jumping jacks, high knees, mountain climbers, planks. But where before I'd felt only the burning in my muscles and the struggle to keep up, now I noticed something new: Chad's eyes on me, appreciative in a way that went beyond technical assessment. When he corrected my plank position, his hand on my lower back lingered a moment longer than strictly necessary, the heat of his palm burning through my thin t-shirt.

"Keep your core tight," he instructed, his voice close to my ear. "Protect your spine."

The dual nature of his guidance—both technical instruction and nurturing care—gave every interaction a new dimension. My body responded not just to the physical demands but to the subtle cues of his approval, pushing harder to earn his nod of satisfaction.

After warm-ups, we moved to technique review. Chad demonstrated the wrist escape I'd learned in our previous sessions, his movements precise and controlled. When it was my turn to practice, he grabbed my wrist with firm pressure, his fingers encircling me completely.

"Remember," he said as I executed the escape, turning against his thumb and stepping away, "this is about leverage, not strength. Your technique was excellent, but your confidence still hesitates. Trust your body's knowledge."

I nodded, focusing on the correction. We repeated the drill several times, Chad gradually increasing his resistance. On the fifth repetition, I executed the escape perfectly, breaking his grip with a smooth, decisive movement.

"There," he said, satisfaction evident in his tone. "You felt the difference?"

"Yes," I replied, a small thrill of accomplishment running through me. "It was cleaner somehow."

"The body understands before the mind does," Chad said, his expression softening briefly. "You're learning to trust your instincts."

The praise warmed me from the inside out, making me stand a little straighter.

"Now for something new," he continued, moving to the center of our training area. "A basic hip throw. This is fundamental in jujitsu—one of the first throws most students learn."

He called over one of the senior students from the main class, a lean young man with a brown belt, to demonstrate. Chad positioned himself, gripped the student's gi, then executed a fluid motion that sent the young man flying through the air to land with a solid thud on the mat. The power and control in Chad's movement was breathtaking—one moment his partner was standing, the next he was on his back, Chad still holding his gi collar.

"The principle is redirection of momentum," Chad explained as his partner bounced back to his feet. "Using your opponent's weight and movement against them." He thanked the student, who bowed and returned to the main class.

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