A/N

Hello everyone, I'm finally back with the next chapter of No Sparks Required!

This chapter has been sitting in my drafts for awhile, but I just could not find the time to post it. I think it's safe to say that you can expect at least one chapter a month starting from here on out, although I'll try my best to update more frequently since this story's already fully planned from start to end.

I hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you so much for reading! (Also, just like Beverly in the previous chapter, I've flipped a toenail twice in my life and having had first-hand experience of it... 10/10 would not recommend.)

x Noelle

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F O U R

v i s c o s i t y

The magnitude of internal friction in a fluid, measured by the force per unit area resisting uniform flow.

IT TURNS OUT that having a flipped toenail isn't actually fine, after all. I'm still hobbling painfully out of the nurse's office, even after she's disinfected and bandaged the wound up. Shane, of course, looks ridiculously pleased that I have to hold onto him. He's one step away from parading me around like I'm some sort of trophy wife, and I resist the childish urge to stomp on him with my other good foot.

Fortunately, before I can give into my impulses, an unfamiliar voice calls my name.

"Beverly?"

I turn in surprise, only to find a boy with sandy blond hair smiling at me. It's Brendan Orland. I'm surprised that he even knows my name, since I don't particularly run in his social circles. Shane tenses beside me, his muscles flexing beneath the grip I have on his arm.

"Oh, hey, Brendan," I greet with a smile. "What's up?"

"I don't know, you tell me. Mr Richards mentioned that you need help or something?"

I crack a small, apologetic smile. Seems like Mr Richards started assigning tasks right away during my absence. I really hope that he didn't make me sound worse at Chemistry than I already am. "Right, that. Um, how should I put this..."

"How about I walk you to History and then we can talk about it?"

"No way," Shane says sharply beside me. "I'm walking her."

Brendan raises an eyebrow. "Isn't your class on the other end of the building, Corelli? You might not get there in time if you keep going in this direction. Anyway, Beverly and I have the same class. It only makes sense that we walk there together."

All this talk about walking is making me feel like a dog. And the longer we stay here, the more likely we'll all be late. I turn to Shane and release his arm. "Brendan's right, it is more convenient."

Shane frowns. "But – "

"Really, I'll be okay. You should go."

He stares at me for a beat longer, before he relents with a sigh. Then he turns to Brendan with narrowed eyes. "You better not cause her to trip or anything, Orland."

Brendan scoffs. "I'm not on the field, Corelli, I don't have to resort to dirty plays to help someone to class." Once he's led me a good distance down the hallway, he turns to me with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. Corelli and I don't always see eye to eye, especially when it comes to soccer. And I have to admit that I'm still a little bitter about him having kicked me off the vice-captain position on our team."

"Oh, yeah, I did hear something about that. I always assumed it was just rumours though."

"No, it's true," Brendan says with a shrug, even as his jaw clenches. "He had the team vote me off because, according to him, I cost them the tournament last season. Even though I only made that foul play so that we could win."

I bite the inside of my cheek. It's hard to choose sides without having the full picture, but knowing what I do know of Shane, he's always been a terribly fair and honest person. It makes sense that he'd get riled up about something like that. "Well, I don't really follow soccer so I can't judge," I admit haltingly, "but in my swim meets, we do have a standard set of rules to follow. Anything else would result in disqualification. Although... getting kicked off a position does sound like a rather harsh punishment."

"Right?" Brendan rolls his eyes, before he cracks a grin. "Thanks for understanding. It seems that the only ones who do are those who aren't on the team. I guess they can actually be objective about it. Anyway, what did you need help for again?"

"Oh, right..." On the way over to History class, I tell Brendan about my conversation with Mr Richards earlier this morning. "Sorry for all the trouble I'm putting you through," I add before we go to our respective seats. "If you don't have time, that's honestly okay. I can just tell Mr Richards that you taught me, and then I'll study on my own – "

"No, that's okay. I'm happy to teach you."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. How's Saturday morning sound to you? We've got a test in two weeks so you should probably improve your grades a little by then."

I smile back at him. "Sounds good. I'll text you my address."

"See you Saturday, then."

After we exchange numbers, Brendan leaves me at my seat and goes back to his friends. Dani, who shares this class with me, arrives just as he leaves. "Was that Brendan Orland?" she gasps, staring after him with heart bubbles emanating from her eyes. "He really is cute, isn't he?"

Dani has a habit of making everything sound like a teen fiction novel, which can be both amusing and horrifying at the same time. "I guess...? I didn't really notice. We were only talking because my Chemistry teacher wants him to teach me so that I can pull up my grades."

"Lucky," Dani says enviously. "I'd fail all my subjects if I could get someone like him to teach me."

"Sometimes, I worry for your future."

"Worry about yourself," she shoots back with a little huff. "Tamara texted me that you broke your toenail running into a door. All because you were too busy staring at Shane McHottie Corelli that you didn't see where you were going."

"That's literally not what happened!" I start indignantly, but Dani's already too busy inspecting my freshly-bandaged toe. We spend the rest of History lesson half-heartedly listening to the teacher, and surreptitiously discussing the joys and woes of nail care, or lack thereof. By the end of class, Dani has already written up a one-page guide on nail polish colours and the skin tones they match, while the rest of her history notebook remains empty.

It's actually really impressive how she maintains a 4.0 GPA, while having her head stuffed full to the brim with cute boys and daily nail care.

To my surprise, as Dani and I leave class together, we find a familiar figure leaning against the locker doors along the hallway. When Shane notices us, he excuses himself from his conversation with his friend, and heads over. Dani squeezes my arm in delight, and I swear I hear her make a swooning sound that belongs to a maiden from several centuries ago.

"What're you doing here?" I ask Shane curiously.

"I'm here to walk you to our next class. We do have that together, right?" he says with a pointed look, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Trust him to get petty about that. "Come on, hurry up or we'll be late," he adds, holding out a hand to me.

I can only watch in dismay as Dani practically shoves my bag at him, then waves me off with an excited giggle. I reluctantly wrap my hand around Shane's arm, and let him slowly lead me away. "You know that I'm not actually disabled, right? I can walk perfectly fine on my own."

"Yeah? Then why're you gripping me so tightly?" Shane chuckles when I immediately scowl and loosen my grip, but squeezes his elbow against his side to prevent me from pulling away entirely. "So what did Orland want?"

"Seriously? Did you run all the way here after your class just to ask me that?"

"I did not run – I walked swiftly and with purpose. So, tell me, what did he say? And what does our Chemistry teacher have to do with it?"

Shane's like a dog with a bone – it's obvious he won't give up until I tell him about my exchange with Brendan. "It's nothing much, really. My grades aren't that good lately, so Mr Richards wanted someone to teach me. We settled on Brendan after a lengthy conversation."

"What?"

"Yeah, he wasn't the initial recommendation though. Mr Richards originally wanted you to teach me, but I figured you wouldn't want to anyway, so I agreed to have Brendan instead."

"What!?" Shane blurts again, sounding like a parrot.

"What do you mean, 'what?' I know, I know, you're worried about a member of your precious soccer team taking time out of their busy schedule to teach me. But I promise not to take more of Brendan's time than necessary, and that him tutoring me won't affect how he plays on the field. Okay?"

"That's not – " Shane stops and swears under his breath when he sees our Calculus teacher passing us in the hallway. "Shit, we have to hurry. But this is not over!"

We get to class just after Mrs Patil enters, and thankfully, there's still a stream of students making their way in after us. But judging by the dark look on Shane's face as he leaves me at my desk, our conversation is clearly not over. And I'm proven right midway through the lesson when a small crushed ball of paper lands on my desk.

I look up, only to find Shane watching me expectantly from halfway across the room. Seriously? We live in a digital age and he's still resorting to old school ways to communicate? I literally cannot remember when was the last time someone passed me notes in class. Actually, I do remember when that was, I suddenly realise, with a start. It was way back when...

I pull myself together with a shake of my head. That's not important anymore. I glance over at Mrs Patil, before carefully peeling open the paper ball.

What does Orland want with you? the note reads, in Shane's scratchy, almost illegible handwriting.

I blink. Didn't I make myself pretty clear earlier? He offered to teach me, which was what Mr Richards wanted anyway. Stop writing before Ms Patil catches us, I hastily scribble back, before crushing the paper back up. To my surprise, Enzo Fernandez, the footballer who sits across the aisle from me, holds his hand out for the note.

'Give,' he mouths, with a cheeky grin.

I catch Shane's eyes from across the room. When he nods, I drop the note into Enzo's hand. All it takes is one smooth toss from football to soccer player as soon as Mrs Patil's back is turned. It doesn't take long before Enzo deposits the note back on my table, fresh with Shane's new message.

You agreed to have Orland teach you?

Yes, I write back, he's coming over to teach me this Saturday.

A moment passes as Shane reads the note, before he bolts upright in his seat. "What the fuck?!"

"Corelli!" Mrs Patil snaps, turning a fiery glare at him. "One more word from you and off to detention you go. You might be ahead of this class, but don't get ahead of yourself."

Shane sinks lower into his chair. "Sorry, Mrs Patil."

Enzo and I exchange amused looks. It's kind of a refreshing change to have a teacher who doesn't worship the ground Shane Corelli walks on, and treats all her students fairly. But then I catch Shane's eye on me, and my smile quickly fades.

Oh, right. This is definitely not over.

Fortunately, as soon as class is over, Shane's surrounded by a group of friends which leaves me the opportune moment to escape. Well, as fast as I can hobble on my wretched foot anyway. Tamara, Dani and I regroup at lunch, where they arrange a neat schedule of helping me around campus, depending on which one of them shares the same lessons as me.

So I don't see Shane for the rest of the day until classes are over. I'm about to book a cab home when a familiar car pulls up along the sidewalk. The front window rolls down, and Shane braces an arm on the door to peer up at me. "Get in, loser, we're going home."

I tilt my head at him. "Did you just quote Mean Girls?"

"Well, after your sister plays it out loud while you're trying but failing to study in the living room, you tend to pick up a few things. I also happen to be cursed with an excellent memory," he says with a wry grin, and I honestly have no idea whether he's being self-deprecating or just plain bragging.

"Okay, Regina George, but I was going to call a cab."

"Which means you haven't yet," he points out astutely. "Come on, just this once, put aside your incessant need to pretend like we're arch-rivals and let me help you. You're only wasting time standing out here in the hot sun when you could be napping at home."

Damn it, he's got me there. I really do love my afternoon naps. "Fine," I sigh and go around his car to climb into the passenger's seat. Shane's triumphant grin makes me want to smack it off his face, and I do my best to ignore him as I strap myself in.

This is actually the first time I've been in Shane Corelli's car ever since he got his driver's licence, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a little curious. I try to look around as surreptitiously as possible, taking in the soccer cleats, knee guards and faded blue jacket, all tossed haphazardly on the backseat. Apart from those, his car is actually rather clean and neat, and a light minty smell fills the air.

"So how is it?" Shane's voice interrupts my thoughts. I turn to find him watching me from the corner of his eye while he drives, a small smile playing on his lips. "Not as bad as you imagined, huh?"

"...it's okay, I guess."

He chuckles, unfazed by my dry response. "So, can you finally tell me why the hell you agreed to meet up with Brendan Orland, of all people?"

"Hmph. I knew you had an agenda when offering me a ride."

"It's hardly an agenda. I've been offering to drive you home for as long as I can remember."

"And there's a reason I always say no. I don't like owing you any favours."

Shane lets out a sigh. "Why do things always have to be transactional between us? Can't you just take this as one friend showing concern for the other?"

"Friends?" A bitter laugh slips past my lips. "We are not friends."

"...according to you," he mutters under his breath, but I catch it anyway.

"According to history," I say firmly. "And do you really want to talk about concern? A real friend would be genuinely concerned that I'm failing Chemistry, instead of obsessing over who my tutor is supposed to be."

"Obsessing? You think that's what I'm doing?"

"Aren't you? Look, I know you don't get along with Brendan. I heard about your feud with him, but that's really your own business. I won't back out just because you two have differences you can't resolve on the soccer field."

Shane pulls the car to an abrupt halt along the sidewalk. "Wait," he says sharply, turning to me with narrowed eyes, "You actually think that I'm that fucking petty to let my feud with Orland get in the way of your good grades? Do you really think that little of me?"

No, I want to say, I don't. Once upon a time, I used to think the world of you. And sometimes, if I close my eyes and pretend that no time has ever passed, I still do. His dark gaze pierces mine, as though he can see right through me. I quickly look away, swallowing hard.

"...I don't think about you at all."

There's a wretched moment of silence, before Shane lets out a slow breath. "Right." I don't dare to look at him so I can't see his expression, but I can hear the hurt in his voice. My eyes snap up to his, an apology on the tip of my tongue. I didn't mean to sound so harsh. I didn't. But he's already pulling back onto the main road, his hands clutching the wheel in a white-knuckled grip.

We don't speak for the rest of the drive home.