The cold Kansas City wind bit at Patrick Mahomes as he stepped out of his car, adjusting his jacket and pulling his cap lower over his face. He had just finished another long day, and all he wanted was to get home. It was supposed to be a normal evening, but as he turned the corner near an old alleyway, something caught his attention.
A homeless man sat curled up against a brick wall, his hands trembling from the biting cold. But it wasn’t the sight of the man that grabbed Patrick’s focus—it was the jersey he wore. The faded number 15 on his chest barely stood out through the grime and dirt. It was Patrick’s rookie jersey, a limited edition that only a select few owned. His heart skipped a beat. How did this man, someone who seemed to have nothing, come to own something so valuable?
Patrick slowly walked toward the man, his breath visible in the air. As he got closer, the more details he noticed. The man’s frail body, the bruises on his knuckles, and the hollow look in his eyes—this wasn’t just any homeless man. There was something unsettling about him.
At first, the man didn’t notice Patrick. He was rubbing his hands together, muttering something under his breath, lost in his own world. Patrick cleared his throat, trying to get his attention.
“Where did you get that jersey?” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. The man flinched, his eyes snapping up in fear. For a moment, he looked ready to run. But then his gaze settled on Patrick’s face, and something in his expression shifted—shock, recognition, and then something deeper.
“Pat…” the man’s voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. Patrick froze. How did this man know his name?
The man blinked rapidly, as though trying to convince himself that what he was seeing was real. His lips trembled before he let out a weak laugh. “I should’ve known I’d run into you someday.”
Patrick took a step closer. “Do I know you?”
The man let out a small, bitter laugh. He lifted a shaking hand, pointing at himself. “It’s me, Pat. It’s Tony.”
Patrick’s breath caught in his throat. The name hit him like a punch. Tony. His childhood best friend. The guy he used to throw the football with every day after school. The one who had always dreamed of making it big, just like Patrick. And now, Tony was homeless.
Patrick crouched down, scanning his friend’s face. The years had not been kind. Tony’s bright eyes were sunken, his skin rough, and his body was reduced to a frail, skeletal frame wrapped in ragged clothing.
“Tony, what happened to you, man?” Patrick whispered.
Tony just smiled weakly, running his fingers over the faded jersey. “Life happened, Pat. Some of us get to fly, and some of us crash.”
Patrick’s chest tightened. This wasn’t the Tony he remembered. “Where are you staying?”
Tony smirked, stretching his arms wide. “You’re looking at it. Home sweet home.”
Patrick’s stomach twisted. Tony was sleeping on the streets, in the same city where Patrick had built a career and an empire. His best friend, the guy who had once shared dreams of greatness, was now fighting to survive.
Before Patrick could say anything else, Tony’s expression suddenly changed. Panic filled his eyes. He tried to stand up too quickly, stumbling back, his hands gripping his head.
“Pat, you need to leave right now,” Tony’s voice shook.
Patrick frowned. “What? Why?”
Tony’s breathing grew faster, his eyes darting around the alley as though he was afraid of something—or someone. Then, in a whisper so soft Patrick almost didn’t hear it, Tony muttered, “They’re watching me.”
Patrick’s blood ran cold. “Who’s watching you?”
Tony swallowed hard, his body trembling. He leaned in close, his voice barely above a whisper. “They know I talked to you. And now they’ll come for you too.”
A chill crawled up Patrick’s spine. This wasn’t just about homelessness. Something was terribly wrong, and Patrick was about to find out exactly what.
His mind raced. Who could be watching Tony? Why would anyone care that they were talking? Patrick glanced over his shoulder. The alley was dark, mostly empty except for a few flickering streetlights and a stray cat rummaging through a trash can. Nothing seemed out of place. But the way Tony was acting told him something was definitely wrong.
“Tony, listen to me,” Patrick said, keeping his voice calm. “What are you talking about? Who’s after you?”
Tony squeezed his eyes shut, gripping his head as though trying to stop himself from speaking. Then, just as suddenly, he grabbed Patrick’s wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong for someone so frail.
“Pat, you gotta go now. Forget you saw me,” Tony’s voice cracked.
Patrick yanked his arm free but didn’t move. “Not happening. If someone’s after you, I’m not leaving you out here alone.”
Tony let out a bitter laugh. “Oh yeah? And what are you going to do, Pat? Call the cops? You think they care about a guy like me?”
Patrick clenched his jaw. He hated that Tony was right. People like him—the rich and powerful—had options. Tony had nothing.
“Then tell me who I need to talk to. What the hell did you get yourself into?”
Tony’s eyes darted around again, his body tense as though expecting someone to step out from the shadows. “It’s not what I got into, Pat. It’s what I couldn’t get out of.”
Patrick’s pulse quickened. “Tony, what does that mean?”
Tony opened his mouth to speak, but his whole body went rigid. His eyes locked onto something over Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick didn’t need to turn around to know they weren’t alone anymore. Footsteps—slow, heavy, purposeful. A deep voice sliced through the cold air.
“Tony,” it said. “I told you not to talk to anyone.”
Patrick turned sharply. A man stood at the mouth of the alley, dressed in a long black coat. His hands were casually tucked into his pockets, but there was nothing casual about the way he stared at Tony—cold, calculating, dangerous.
Tony’s breathing turned shaky. He took a step back. “I didn’t say anything, I swear.”
The man took a step forward, his voice calm but dangerous. “No? Then why does your friend here look so interested?”
Patrick didn’t flinch. He’d been around enough powerful men to recognize this type. This guy wasn’t just some random thug. He carried himself like a man who had control—and enjoyed it.
“You got a problem with me talking to my friend?” Patrick asked, his voice steady.
The man smiled, but his eyes stayed cold. “Depends. Are you just talking, or are you trying to save him?”
Patrick didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Deep down, he already knew. This wasn’t just a random encounter. Tony was in deep, and now so was Patrick.
Before Patrick could react, Tony made a desperate move. He bolted, running down the alley as fast as he could. Patrick shouted after him, but Tony didn’t slow down. He darted through the streets, weaving between dumpsters and broken crates like a man running for his life.
But then, out of nowhere, Tony tripped. His foot caught on a loose piece of pavement, and he crashed to the ground hard.
Patrick reached him in seconds, kneeling beside him. “Tony, stop!” he shouted.
Tony groaned, clutching his knee. “Damn it, Pat,” he muttered. “You should’ve left. You should’ve walked away.”
Patrick grabbed his arm, holding him steady. “Not happening. You think I’m just going to leave you out here?”
Tony shook his head, his eyes dark with guilt and fear. “This ain’t about me anymore.”
Tony looked over his shoulder, as though expecting someone to step out of the shadows. “They know you’re involved now.”
Patrick’s heart pounded. “Who are they?”
Tony exhaled sharply. “I wasn’t always on the streets. I had a good job. But I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see.”
Patrick’s stomach tightened. “What did you see?”
Tony hesitated. Then, just as footsteps echoed in the distance, he grabbed Patrick’s jacket with desperate fingers. “If I tell you, you’re in it too. They don’t just ruin your life, Pat. They erase it.”
Patrick stared at him, every instinct in his body telling him Tony wasn’t exaggerating.
Just then, a black SUV came screeching around the corner. The headlights flashed, and tires squealed as the car skidded to a stop. The doors flew open, and two men in black suits jumped out.
Tony’s face drained of color. He shoved Patrick toward a side street. “Go! Go!” Tony shouted.
Before Patrick could react, Tony did something that made his blood run cold. He ran toward the men, throwing himself into their grasp as if he were sacrificing himself.
Patrick turned, but it was too late. The SUV doors slammed shut, and the tires screeched as it sped off into the night.
Patrick stood there, frozen in the cold street, holding a crumpled envelope that Tony had shoved into his hands. His best friend was gone—vanished into the night. But Patrick wasn’t leaving empty-handed. Inside the envelope was a name—David Cross. And it would change everything.
Patrick stood still, the weight of the night pressing down on him. He knew this was far from over. It was just the beginning.
Patrick Mahomes Confirms He’s Worn the Same Underwear for Every NFL Game Since Rookie Year: ‘I Wash ‘Em’
“As long as I’m winning football games, I’ll keep the superstition going,” the Super Bowl champ told Peyton and Eli Manning of his ritual
Mikayla Schmidt/Kansas City Chiefs via AP
Patrick Mahomes in Frankfurt, Germany, on Nov. 5, 2023
Patrick Mahomes has confirmed the red-underwear rumors.
Appearing on ESPN’s ManningCast for Monday Night Football, the Kansas City Chiefs quarterback admitted to Peyton and Eli Manning that he wears the same pair of underwear for every game.
“First, my wife Brittany got them for me, so I’m not throwin’ y’all down, but I have to wear ’em, ya know,” Mahomes, 28, told the brothers of his former high-school sweetheart, 28.
“At the same time, I threw ’em on that first season [and] we had a pretty good season that season,” he explained of how it all started back in 2017.
Frazer Harrison/Getty
Patrick Mahomes and Brittany Mahomes on July 12, 2023, in Hollywood, California
“I only wear ’em for game day, though,” he continued during his Denver Broncos and Buffalo Bills game commentary, noting “they’re not too worn down” or “nasty.”
“I clean ’em. I wash ’em. Every once in a while, at least,” joked Mahomes. “I mean, if we’re on a hot streak, I can’t wash ’em, you know? I’ve gotta just keep it rolling.”
Added the athlete, “As long as I’m winning football games, I’ll keep the superstition going.”
The Super Bowl 2023 champ’s superstitious ritual was revealed back in February by the Chiefs’ former backup quarterback, Chad Henne, who gave a glimpse into Mahomes’ game-day prep during a guest spot on The Adam Schefter Podcast.
“He has a baseball background, so he has to have a certain thing each and every day,” Henne shared of the Kansas City Royals part owner. “He comes in, he does his work. His notes are written out a certain way. Same pair of underwear, which probably not a lot of people know, on game day. He’s been wearing it since I’ve been part of it.”
When pressed for more details, Henne added, “They’re red. I’m not sure if they’re Hanes or if they’re Lululemon, but it’s one or two of those brands, and ever since he comes in the locker room — boom, it’s right there. I’ll be stretching, and like I said, you just glimpse up, and you’re like, ‘Damn, kid’s wearing them again.’ “
“This definitely has to be a superstition and a good-luck charm, for sure,” he added.
In addition to racking up red-underwear wins, Mahomes is now modeling at-home loungewear professionally, as he and his family just launched a holiday campaign with Kim Kardashian’s SKIMS.
“This is our first campaign as a family, and shooting for SKIMS all together was an awesome moment,” the two-time NFL MVP said in a press release of the family’s matching red-and-black checkered pajama sets.
Added Mahomes, “I’m all about comfort and these sets will be my go-to at home all season.”
