Jean-Paul & Philippe Leblanc | Saturday Afternoon; Jean-Paul & Maurice Cloutier | Saturday Evening

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After training, Jean-Paul is pulled aside by an unknown man intent on blackmailing him.


"If I have to vertically jump one more hurdle, it'll be too soon," Jean-Paul said, laughing despite himself as he and the other men finished their training for the day. Dry-land training was not his favorite summer activity, but he got to hang out with the rest of the Alpine Ski Team, compete without actually losing anything, and it was hot, which was very nice.

One of his teammates answered back, quipping something English. Jean-Paul just grabbed a towel and retorted in French just to be pedantic. Someone threw a bottle at his head, but he caught it as they all began filtering toward the door. From there, it was back to the flat he was leasing for a shower and dinner.

"Ahem." From behind Jean-Paul the sound came of someone clearing their throat. A small, officious looking man stood there clutching his keyboard. "Excellent work as always gentlemen, I'm sure the other teams don't stand a chance," he said obsequiously. "Mister Beaubier, could I please have a word with you before you head home?"

Eyebrows rising, the smile began to melt off Jean-Paul's face as he turned toward the man asking for his attention. He waved off one of his teammates. "Oui?"

The man looked at the backs of the the retreating athletes, then down the hall in the other direction, before motioning towards one of the nearby conference rooms. "Why don't we step in there Mister Beaubier?" Leading the way, he settled himself down in one of the seats and motioned Jean-Paul to sit as well. "My name is Philippe Leblanc, I work for the IOC. I'm sure you know why I'm here."

Whatever smart answer might have been about to come out of Jean-Paul froze for a moment in his newly acquired seat at the mention of the IOC. He ran over his schedule, trying to remember whether or not he'd had any testing that needed to be done or applications that he should have filled out. He didn't, though, and a small voice at the back of his mind whispered deny everything. "Non, monsieur," the Quebecois answered, letting a smile slide into place on his lips once again. "But I am happy, of course, to answer the IOC's questions or help if I may."

Philippe felt his eyebrows raise, but if that was how Beaubier wanted to play it. "Well, I'm sure that you were expecting a visit like this, as you know the IOC is a small team so we all have... how do I put it... overlapping area's of concern. You might get away with paying off the man who received the test but it still existed and for someone like myself it wasn't hard to find out that something had...slipped through the cracks and find the test from 2009."

All attempts at being friendly fell away when this Leblanc began implying bribery or... whatever this was. Jean-Paul's fingers tightened on the towel he'd kept slung around his neck and his expression was hard when he said, "Non, monsieur. I think you are mistaken. Whatever it is you are trying to imply here -- though, actually -- please, monsieur, explain to me. Tell me exactly what it is you think you could use to blackmail me."

"You really want to do it this way?" Philippe asked in exasperation. "Fine then, on your head be it. I know you're a mutant and I know you paid off several members of the IOC to cover that up." He shook his finger at Jean-Paul. "You've been a very, very naughty... mutant. I wonder how your adoring public would react if this were to get out. Or your sponsors. Or the rest of the IOC. I'd probably get a nice fat bonus for bringing you in and I'm sure you don't want that, so I'll need a even nicer bonus from you for letting you be."

Jean-Paul arched an eyebrow, his expression more mocking than worried or upset. "This?" He asked, gesturing to the table between them. "This is what you think to blackmail me with? A lie?" He openly scoffed now, shaking his head. "My testing is a matter of public record - you'll find a better scandal trying to dig up pictures of me and the man I went home with last night."

"I'm not sure that's your best choice Mister Beaubier. You wouldn't want all of your hard work to go to waste. Or worse, think of the scandal for your country. Who knows if it might ever recover?" Philippe stood up. "Why don't you take some time and go talk to your coach. I'll be in touch."

More unsettled by Leblanc's calm response, the fact that there was no blustering or protestations as to the validity of his accusation, Jean-Paul stood and left without replying. The scandal, such as it might be, would wind up coming to nothing because his x-gene test results were a matter of public record. He remembered very clearly getting them in 2009. Still, it might be worthwhile to call Maurice when he got home, perhaps pay his coach a visit. Corrupt IOC personnel attempting blackmail was newsworthy all on its own.


Jean-Paul visits his coach and agent, Maurice Cloutier, to apprise him of the situation.


Returning to his leased flat straight from the bizarre conversation with Leblanc, Jean-Paul forced himself to take a shower and to eat something nutritious before picking up his mobile and calling his coach. He fidgeted, unable to make himself sit still for any length of time even as the phone rang.

There was a click on the other end of the line. "Jean-Paul!" The heavily accented French voice of Maurice Cloutier came through the speaker slightly muffled. "Give me a minute - I'm on the other line with the guys who want the energy drink endorsement." Before Jean-Paul could answer, the speaker crackled and the phone fell silent. The line remained quiet for a second before the voice of Jean-Paul's coach and agent boomed back in. "Okay! Sorry about that. What's up?"

"Maurice," Jean-Paul said, feeling relieved despite the fact that he hadn't actually said anything. "Can I come by the office? I needed to talk to you about something, it might be problematic down the line."

The line was silent again. "Oh, Jean-Paul," Maurice said, his voice quieter and tinged with disappointment. "Who'd you do, and which magazine has the pictures?"

Scoffing, Jean-Paul grabbed a t-shirt and pulled it on one arm as he said, "Pssh, no. It is not a sex scandal. Though truly, the last one only improved my standing with... whatever the demographic was. But can I come to the office?"

"It was 14-to-16-year old women with blogs." Maurice didn't try to hide his disdain. "But yes, please come over." The rustling of papers could be heard in the background. "I'm sure whatever you're thinking – we've weathered the storm before, you know?"

Jean-Paul grinned despite himself. "Yes, of course. I'll be there shortly," he said, ringing off before he finished pulling his shirt on and headed for the door. Leblanc's accusations seemed ridiculous now, particularly in light of his coach's reaction - surely if there was even the slightest hint of something as damaging to his career as being a mutant, Maurice would know. And of course, once apprised of the situation, Maurice would know what to do to make it go away.

Fifteen minutes later, Jean-Paul strode into Maurice's office, waved to the secretary, and pushed through the door to the older man's inner sanctum. "Hello?"

The man himself was on the phone, and so he looked up and gestured to the couch on one side of the room. "Uh huh," Maurice nodded, rolling his eyes at Jean-Paul as he sat down. "Okay, Henri, but..." He frowned. "Henri," he repeated, louder this time. "Henri, Henri, I hear you. I'll talk to him, okay. And I'll have Elisabeth call you back?" He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his free hand. "Okay, Henri. Okay. Sure."

As Maurice stood, the full height of his frame cast a shadow on the carpet. "Jean-Paul." He moved around the desk, coming in front of the couch and sitting on an armchair across from it. "Henri says you're not keeping to his nutrition plan, and that you haven't checked in for a while, and something about how his services are not to be wasted."

There was a frown on his face, and he held it for a few seconds, but a smile played on his lips soon after. Maurice Cloutier rarely stayed angry for long, at least not at his star athlete. "That man." He tried to adopt a stern demeanor, but the corners of his mouth still tugged his expression upward. "Even when he's saying something completely logical, he sounds like a lunatic."

Jean-Paul made a face. "Oui, and he wants me to eat all the broccoli in the whole of Ontario. And the boiled chicken. Broccoli and carrots and boiled chicken. He won't even let me salt it," he said, waving his hand about. "He's angry because I had a cheeseburger. It was delicious. I regret nothing. But this is not why I came to see you. Do you know a man from the IOC called Philippe Leblanc?"

"Hm." Maurice tilted his head, considering. "No," he said rather decisively after a few minutes. "Doesn't sound familiar. But I don't interact much with those bureaucratic morons." His phone vibrated, and he pulled it out of his pocket. "Too many meetings, not enough skiing, you know?"

"Oui, yes," Jean-Paul said, nodding his agreement. "Monsieur Leblanc caught me at the gym. He took me aside to a conference room, mentioned the IOC, and then attempted to blackmail me for being a mutant. I told him, I said - non, this is not so. And since it isn't, I thought you should know - we might have to make a statement or do another test to show he's lying."

Maurice's smile faded as he stared down at his phone. As he raised his chin to look at Jean-Paul, all hints of mirth were gone from his face. "Jean-Paul," he said quietly, in a voice generally reserved for furious skiing critique, "this is very important: How did you respond?"

Frowning, Jean-Paul said, "Only what I have said, I told him what he said, it was a lie. My records are public. It is ridiculous to try to blackmail me with a lie."

"Good, good." The coach nodded, and some of the tension left his face. Hard wrinkle lines became smoother, and his eyes widened a bit. "I worry — sometimes, you know, you are very hot-headed. Normally I like it, but with these kinds of people..." He waved a hand. "Good."

Relaxing a bit again, Jean-Paul nodded. "It is just, it is absurd, yes?" He said, shaking his head. "I was surprised, that is all. But he seemed very sure and so I do not know what he plans."

"His threats are meant for lesser men." Maurice shrugged. He stood, crossing in front of Jean-Paul to the small bar cart he kept in his office. Without asking, he grabbed two glasses and began rifling through for a bottle of scotch. "People who are weak - who would pay rather than stare directly at his empty lies. You and I," he turned over his shoulder, a warm smile on his face, "we are not like that. And now he knows."

Jean-Paul laughed a little, half a snort, and shook his head. "So he will not try for more, you think? It seemed like he would, or like he would try to go to the media."

"He may," Maurice admitted. He was looking at an empty space on the floor, the gears clearly turning behind his eyes. The room was silent, aside from the ticking of a grandfather clock, and Maurice's fingers hitting the bottle in his hand. Then, he looked up with a reassuring smile on his face. "But blackmail is a crime. And he must know this. So," he turned around and began pouring whiskey into both glasses, "I do not think you ought to worry."

"Merci, Maurice," Jean-Paul said, nodding easily. It was as he suspected - whatever Leblanc might attempt, it would be futile.