Sure, the news loves to gush about “hunky gladiators,” but I’m not registering for that. I’m going to learn to grow stronger inside and out, not to flirt.
Two weeks until I find out if I’m stronger than I’ve ever believed—and if strength means opening myself to something more.
Chapter Two
Nicole
The GPS announces my arrival at Second Chance Sanctuary with the same bland efficiency it once used to direct me to soccer practices and PTA meetings. Only this time, instead of sticky minivans and juice boxes, I’m staring at gates tall enough to keep dinosaurs at bay.
Steel bars, cameras, and a checkpoint that looks like it could repel a Roman legion. Suburban mom drop-off, this is not.
My pulse skitters. “Holy shit.” I’m talking to myself now, apparently. But really, what else do you say when there are actual Roman gladiators walking around like it’s just another Tuesday?
I roll down my window as a guard approaches. Not a gladiator, thank God—no armor, no plumed helmet, no loincloth. Just khakis, a polo, and a Missouri drawl that feels a little like a hug.
“First time here?” His eyes are kind but sharp, like he could spot trouble before it took its first breath.
“Yes,” I admit. “And wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.” The words slip out before I can paste on a brave smile.
He grins. “That feeling passes. By week two, you’ll feel like you belong. Just follow the main road to the big log building—reception. You can’t miss it.”
I thank him and drive through, trying not to gape like a tourist.
The compound stretches across the Missouri countryside like something out of a movie: training yards full of muscle-bound men moving with fluid precision, the clang of metal on metal ringing across the air. No amount of news clips or documentaries could’ve prepared me for this. These aren’t pixels on a screen—they’re men, alive, breathing, and impossibly real. Horses snort from the stables, hay mingling with leather, sweat, and something else I can’t name—like sunlight and stubborn will.
I park and grip the steering wheel, frozen in place. Out on the yard, a red-haired giant demonstrates a sword technique to a cluster of gawking visitors. His blade cuts through the air so smoothly it looks choreographed. His booming laugh ricochets off the timbered walls. Beside him, a dark-haired man in jeans strolls past with a tablet, his brow furrowed in concentration. A gladiator reading email? My brain short-circuits.
The disconnect is staggering.
A knock on my window startles me. A cheerful woman in a staff polo waves me toward reception. I fumble out of the car, still half in disbelief.
Inside, the reception building surprises me with warmth: cushioned chairs, rustic beams, walls lined with framed photos—some ancient artifacts, some glossy shots of gladiators in modern dress. The mix makes my head spin.
“Welcome!” The woman behind the desk is about my age, with a smile so genuine it lowers my shoulders two inches. “You here for the women’s self-defense intensive?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Every woman who walks in has the same look.” She leans conspiratorially over the counter. “Half terror, half excitement, one hundred percent convinced you’ve lost your mind.”
She’s not wrong.
“I’m Janet.”
“Nicole Thompson.”
She taps on her computer. “You’re in for four weeks of sweat, bruises, and breakthroughs.”
“Bruises?” I echo.
She winks. “The good kind. We don’t let anyone break.”
Her words settle my nerves more than a dozen deep breaths.
“Before you head to orientation, want the quick history?”
“Yes, please.”
She gestures me toward a wall of framed clippings and points to a photo of a woman in field gear beside a square-jawed man with a steady gaze. The headline reads: “Dr. Laura Turner and Varro Announce Sanctuary Expansion.”
