It started with a loud crack — and ended with a lifelong habit.

One of Patrick Mahomes’ physical therapists recently shared a behind-the-scenes detail that might sound small, but says everything about what it’s like to live in a house with kids — especially when one of them is named Sterling.

Every time Patrick finishes a long day of practice or a grueling game, he heads to the recovery room — a quiet space in his house reserved for massages, stretching, and physical therapy. There’s a massage chair tucked into one corner. High-tech. Fully adjustable. Top of the line.

And yet, every single time, Patrick insists on adjusting the chair to the exact same angle. Not too far back. Not too upright. Just one very specific notch.

At first, the therapist thought it was about comfort. Maybe it relieved pressure on his back, or it aligned with the shape of his spine just right. But when he offered to tilt the chair slightly for a deeper, more relaxing position, Patrick laughed.

“Nah, leave it like that,” he said. “It’s a reminder.”

The therapist raised an eyebrow. A reminder of what?

Patrick smiled, shook his head, and finally told the story — one of those small domestic moments that somehow sticks forever.

About a year earlier, he walked into the recovery room, sore after a particularly rough game. He was tired, distracted, and looking forward to the chair more than anything. He didn’t think twice before dropping into it.

Except he didn’t quite drop into it — not like he meant to.

Unbeknownst to him, Sterling had been playing in the room earlier that day. Like any toddler, she left a few things behind. One of them — a small plastic toy — had been wedged perfectly into the crevice between the back cushion and the seat.

When Patrick sat down, he hit the toy at just the right angle. There was a sharp pop, followed by the unmistakable crack of something snapping. The chair jolted under him, and he stood back up immediately, more surprised than hurt.

The damage wasn’t major, but it was permanent. The reclining mechanism in the chair had fractured internally, and from that day on, it would only lock comfortably into one specific notch — the same one he uses now.

Patrick could’ve replaced the chair. He could’ve gotten it fixed, or upgraded to something even newer. But he didn’t.

When asked why, he shrugged.

“That little break reminds me I live with two wild little tornadoes,” he said, referring to Sterling and her younger brother. “It’s not about comfort. It’s about learning to live with the chaos.”

The therapist smiled and asked again, just to be sure:
“You sure you don’t want it tilted back just a bit more? You’d get better lumbar support.”

But Patrick just waved him off:
“I’m good. That broken spot? It’s part of the house now. Part of the story.”

There’s something deeply human about that — a superstar athlete, with access to every luxury, choosing to keep a slightly broken chair because it reminds him of his daughter’s forgotten toy. It’s the kind of detail no stat sheet can measure. A reminder that even MVPs sometimes sit down too fast and land on a plastic unicorn.

In a household filled with trophies, playbooks, and high-stakes moments, sometimes it’s the everyday mishaps that leave the deepest marks — and the warmest memories.

So now, every time Patrick sinks into that chair, he doesn’t just relax. He remembers. The pop. The laughter. The lesson.

As his therapist put it best:
“He could have that chair fixed tomorrow. But he keeps it just the way it is — because that notch, that exact angle… that’s what living with kids looks like.”