Chapter One
Nicole
“You sure you’re going to be okay, Mom?” Ava asks, her arms wrapped around me one final time before she heads into the dormitory. The September morning air carries that crisp promise of autumn, and for the first time in twenty-five years, I’m not dreading what comes next.
Pulling back, I look at my youngest child’s face—so much like mine at eighteen, before life taught me to shrink. “I’m going to be more than okay, sweetheart. I’m going to befree.”
The words taste foreign on my tongue, like a language I’m just learning to speak.
Ava’s eyes shine with a mix of tears and pride. “I can’t believe you’re actually doing this. The self-defense thing, I mean.”
“Believe it.” I squeeze her shoulders, feeling the strength I’ve been building in my arms. “Your old mom’s going to learn to kick some ass.”
She laughs, and the sound follows me as I walk back to my car. The parking lot sprawls in front of me—dozens of parents saying goodbye to their children, starting new chapters. But I’m the only one whose chapter involves potentially getting my butt handed to me by a two-thousand-year-old gladiator.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, I find myself grinning as I slide behind the wheel.
Twenty-five years of being told I was too fat, too stupid, too lucky that Scott stayed with me. Twenty-five years of making myself smaller so he could feel bigger.
But I did it. I raised three kids who turned out amazing despite their father. I survived him. And now, with my divorce finalized and Ava safely launched into her own life, it’s finally my turn.
The highway stretches ahead, taking me away from the university and toward my tiny apartment. My phone buzzes with a text from Ava:Go get ‘em, tiger. Show those gladiators what a strong woman looks like.
Less than a minute later, my oldest, Michael, texts,You’re going to kick ass! We know you can do it.
David, my middle child, replies a few minutes later with a thumbs-up and the toothiest grin emoji—like he’s beaming straight through the screen.
Despite feeling alone in all of this, I’m reminded that my three kids are one hundred percent behind me.
My thoughts arrow to the next step in my journey. Gladiators. The thought still seems surreal. When I’d first heard about Second Chance Sanctuary on the news, I’d laughed. Really? The TV commentators wanted us to believe that actual Roman gladiators were frozen after the ship they were on was destroyed in a storm, rescued from the depths of the Norwegian Sea, and somehow brought back to life two thousand years later. Even more bizarre, they moved to the tiny, rural town of Potosi, Missouri, and some of them were now teaching self-defense and historical combat. Talk about fake news.
Then I’d seen the interviews. The documentary footage. The way these massive, scarred men moved with liquid grace and spoke about honor and survival in a language from a long-dead empire.
Real. They were actually real.
Months later, I’d watched a few documentaries. Some of the gladiators had even found love with modern women. Maybe miracles really did happen.
And somehow, that felt like a sign…
Finally, after the long drive, I pull into my apartment complex, unlock my door, and step into the only space that’s ever been truly mine. Every piece of secondhand furniture was chosen by me. I painted every wall the color I wanted. No more beige everything because Scott called bright colors “garish.”
Once inside, I fire up the laptop—mylaptop, bought withmymoney frommypart-time job at the nonprofit where they actually value my organizational skills. The Second Chance Sanctuary website fills the screen, and I navigate to the self-defense intensive program description.
Four weeks of comprehensive training, designed to help participants reclaim their personal power. Learn authentic self-defense techniques from gladiators who literally fought for their lives. The small-group format ensures personalized attention, and all fitness levels are welcome.
I snort. Pretty sure that’s code for,“we’ll take your money even if you’re a middle-aged woman who gets winded walking up the stairs.”
Except I don’t get winded anymore. Four months of hitting the gym since the divorce became final, and I can actually see muscles in my arms and legs. They’re small, but they’re mine.
My cursor hovers over the “Register Now” button. Four weeks of learning to take up space instead of apologizing for existing. Perhaps four weeks of maybe feeling powerful in my own body before I’m too old for it to matter.
The rational part of my brain—the part that sounds suspiciously like Scott—starts its familiar litany. You’re too old for this. You’ll embarrass yourself. What if you get hurt? What if the other participants are all young and fit and judge you?
But the newer voice, the one that’s been getting stronger since I left him, pushes back. What if you surprise yourself? What if you’re stronger than you think? What if this is exactly what you need?
I click “Register Now” before I can change my mind.
My hands are trembling. I push back from the desk and pace my tiny living room, heart pounding as if I’ve just leaped off a cliff.
