“Hired him?” I asked.
Stricker leaned back in his chair, like he was trying to create more distance between us. “Technically, we didn’t hire him. But I signed off on his involvement with the girls basketball program. He was a volunteer coach for the last month.”
The whole concept of Chuck as coach just didn’t sit right in my head. He’d never showed any inclination to coach and seemed to have had as much use for high school kids as he did used cigarette butts. Maybe it was a secret ambition he’d kept hidden from me. Or maybe things had changed more than I knew since I’d last seen him.
“He was straight with me from the day I met him,” Stricker said. “He told me he didn’t have a degree, that he hadn’t worked in a school before, that he hadn’t coached before. He'd played basketball in high school here and that was about the only qualification he had.”
That sounded right to me. We’d played together at Coronado, in the older version of the gym directly behind me. Chuck was a brute, using his size to make himself into a player. He was athletic enough to use finesse to score, but he preferred banging into people. And he was talented enough to attract some college interest but he blew it off, despising the thought of spending any more time in school, even if it meant a free ride and playing ball.
“So he was here for a month?” I asked.
“About a month, month-and-a-half,” he said. “I watched him in the gym with the team. He was pretty good. He knew how to explain things. Footwork, body position, nuances that can be tough to teach kids. He could do it. During games, he stayed in his seat and kept his mouth shut, working with the girls. He was a model assistant coach.”
“Who’s the head coach?” I asked.
“Kelly Rundles,” he said. “She’s been here three years. She was my first hire. She’s very good.”
“She and Chuck got along alright?”
“Yes. Kelly’s not the type to let anyone step in front of her. She runs the ship. But her ego is manageable enough that if she finds someone who can help, she lets them do their thing. That’s what she did with Winslow.”
“And Meredith Jordan was on the varsity team?” I asked.
“Said we weren’t going to talk about Ms. Jordan,” he said.
“Pretty sure I can look it up online when we’re done,” I said.
He smiled. “Look up whatever you like. I’m not talking about Ms. Jordan.”
The whole scenario was like science fiction. Chuck, in a school, working with teenagers, acting as a role model. Doing something worthwhile. Stricker hadn’t touched on one thing I wanted to know, though.
“Did Chuck just show up here at the school?” I asked. “Looking to volunteer?”
He shifted in his seat, his movements stiffer, more uncomfortable. “No. He was recommended.”
“By who?”
Stricker leveled his gaze at me. “Ms. Jordan’s father.”