Page 45 of Hero Daddy

But the match wasn't over. I couldn't afford to celebrate yet. I followed Ericson down to the ground, quickly establishing side control as he tried to recover from the shock of being thrown. His breathing came faster now, his earlier confidence shattered. I felt his arms pushing against me, trying to create space, but I drove my weight forward as Chad had shown me countless times, keeping my hips low and heavy.

"Pressure," Chad would say during training. "Constant, methodical pressure." I applied it now, making each of Ericson's movements cost him energy and oxygen.

I sensed rather than saw his attempt to bridge his hips, a common escape from side control. The movement created just the opening I needed to transition. In one fluid sequence—drilled hundreds of times until my muscles knew it better than my mind—I caught his arm, threaded my own through, and secured the Kimura lock.

The leverage was perfect. I had his wrist and forearm controlled, his shoulder isolated. Ericson struggled, trying to muscle out of the position, but physics and proper technique trumped raw strength. I maintained the hold, applying steady, controlled pressure to his shoulder joint. Not wrenching or jerking—Chad had been explicit about the ethics of joint locks—but an inexorable, graduated increase in pressure.

Ericson's free hand slapped the mat twice. The referee's whistle pierced the air.

"Stop! Winner, blue square, Daliah Miles!"

The words didn't register immediately. I released the hold automatically, my body understanding what my mind was still processing. I'd won. I had actually won my first competitive match. The referee raised my hand, and the reality of it crashed over me in a wave of disbelief and exhilaration.

My gaze shot to the edge of the mat where Chad stood. His face was transformed with pride, his usual controlled expression cracked wide open with a joy so pure it made my chest ache. I hadn't just won for myself—I'd proven his faith in me justified.

Ericson and I exchanged the customary bow, his expression now respectful rather than dismissive. "Nice Kimura," he muttered, rubbing his shoulder. The acknowledgment felt almost as good as the victory itself.

As I stepped off the mat, legs shaky now that the adrenaline was receding, the full impact of what I'd accomplished hit me. Two months ago, I'd been afraid to call myself a fighter, afraid to believe I could stand on these mats as an equal. Now I had victory buzzing in my blood and the absolute certainty that I belonged here as much as anyone.

I'd won the match with technique, not luck—with skills Chad had carefully cultivated in me, yes, but also with a determination that had been mine all along, just waiting for the right moment to emerge. The medal round was still ahead, and I might not advance further today, but it didn't matter. I'd already conquered something far more significant than any opponent.

I'd conquered my own doubt.

Chad moved forward to meet me, his usual measured stride quickened by an eagerness he rarely displayed in public. We collided in the narrow space between competition areas, his arms engulfing me in an embrace that lifted me clear off my feet. The solid wall of his chest pressed against me, his heartbeat racing almost as fast as mine.

"That's my girl!" he murmured fiercely into my hair, his voice carrying a roughness I'd only heard in our most intimate moments. His arms tightened, a brief squeeze that contained everything words couldn't express—pride, joy, vindication of all the hours we'd spent training. When he set me back on my feet, his hands moved to frame my face, his calloused palms warm against my flushed cheeks. "Incredible, Daliah. Absolutely incredible."

His gray eyes, usually so controlled, now shone with an emotion so raw and unfiltered it made my breath catch. I'd seen Chad passionate, demanding, tender, playful—but this was something new. This was pride stripped of all restraint, love without any guard.

"Every bit of that was you," he continued, his thumbs gently stroking my cheekbones. "Your strength, your strategy, your heart. Daddy is so unbelievably proud of his fierce Little One."

The endearment, spoken quietly enough that only I could hear it, sent a warm current through my body. Even here, surrounded by strangers, competitors, judges, he claimed me as his—not just his student, but his Little One, his responsibility, his joy.

He leaned forward, pressing his lips to my forehead with a reverence that made my eyes sting with sudden tears.

"I remembered everything you taught me," I said, my voice slightly breathless. "When he went for that throw, I could hear your voice telling me to use my center, to redirect his force."

Chad's smile deepened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "That was all you, Daliah. I gave you tools, but you wielded them perfectly." His hand moved to my shoulder, a gesture that could appear merely congratulatory to observers but that carried the weight of his possession. "That hip throw was textbook. And the transition to the Kimura—smooth as silk."

A small crowd of competitors and spectators pushed past us, heading toward another mat where a black belt match was about to begin. The movement reminded me that we stood in a bubble of private emotion amid a very public event.

Chad reached behind him, producing a water bottle from his gym bag. "Drink," he instructed, his tone shifting slightly toward the practical caretaker. "Small sips. You need to rehydrate."

I accepted the bottle, following his direction without question. The cool water felt heavenly against my parched throat, and I realized how physically taxed my body was. Every muscle hummed with a pleasant fatigue, the kind that came from being used exactly as intended. My shoulder ached slightly where I'd hit the mat during an earlier exchange, and my fingers felt stiff from gripping Ericson's gi—small badges of effort I wore with surprising pride.

"How's your shoulder?" Chad asked, his observant eyes missing nothing. "You took that fall on your right side."

"A little sore, but nothing serious," I replied, touched by his attention to my physical wellbeing even in this moment of celebration.

He nodded, satisfied with my assessment. “I can’t wait to get you home later.” His eyes flashed with hunger.

I bit my lip. I couldn’t wait, either.

***

Chad'shouse—ourhousenow—welcomedus with familiar comfort after the intensity of the tournament. I kicked off my shoes in the entryway, muscles pleasantly sore from the day's exertions, and padded into the living room where traces of my presence had gradually accumulated over the past two months. My favorite reading lamp next to the armchair that had somehow become mine. The soft throw blanket I'd brought from my old apartment, now draped across the back of the sofa. Small adjustments to Chad's space that had transformed it into ours, much like how his training had helped transform me into someone stronger, more confident, more wholly myself.

I moved to the kitchen, where fresh flowers—yellow daisies I'd picked up three days ago—brightened the granite countertop. Chad followed, dropping his gym bag by the door, his eyes tracking my movements with an intensity that sent a flutter through my stomach. The tournament medal hung from the lamp in the corner, catching the light. I hadn't won the division—I'd lost my second match to a more experienced competitor—but that first victory was monument enough for both of us.

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